Sometimes When We Touch
by Kyra4
Summary: 7th Year, Sequel to You Gotta Breathe. DMHG fic. Angst and trauma galore, for everyone. And I do mean everyone. Character death [not in main pairing though.] Ch. 31: A Dramione Wedding, continued! This fic is now COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1: Nightmares Again

Sometimes When We Touch (Sequel to You Gotta Breathe)

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and places belong to J.K. Rowling. The song "Sometimes When We Touch" belongs to Dan Hill.

This story is a sequel! Though the first chapter contains a recap of events to this point, I still recommend reading "You Gotta Breathe" if you haven't already done so. It will make things so much clearer!

Ordinarily, I post updates every other Friday, and take great pride in my reliability as a writer who meets her deadlines. (Lately, some unforeseen circumstances /cough/computercrash/cough/ have prevented this, but on the whole I do try, and am usually quite reliable.) This means that yes, there are two weeks between every update, which may seem like a long wait. But personally, when reading a fic I enjoy, I would rather see regular biweekly updates than see three chapters posted in three days, and then nothing for three months! I can only hope that you'll find my updates worth the wait.

(Warning: Draco is somewhat OOC in this. Oh he's still essentially Draco- he's very, I don't know, is "prickly" the right word? But he's in Gryffindor, for one thing. I understand and accept that this alone will be a major turn-off for some people. For another thing, he's in love with Hermione (truly, madly, deeply) which is, in itself, enough to make him OOC because let's face it; Canon Draco is simply not ever going to fall for Hermione. Sorry if I'm bursting anyone's bubble here, but...it ain't gonna happen, people! But if you're reading this you're probably a hard-core D/Hr shipper like me, and are intelligent enough to separate in your mind canon from fanfic, and therefore shouldn't be too bothered, right?)

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Draco sat bolt upright in bed, his heart pounding in his ears, disoriented and alarmed. As he pushed his silver hair back out of his eyes, he heard it again; the noise that had awakened him- an unmistakable sound of distress from the next room. Hermione's room. In one fluid movement, he pushed back the scarlet covers and swung his feet over the edge of the bed.

Nightmares again, he thought groggily, wondered fleetingly what time it was, then, as a louder and even more panicked cry reached his ears, he launched himself toward the door with a speed that belied his sleepy state.

It took him all of perhaps five seconds to get from his bedside, across the small hallway that separated the head boy's and girl's rooms, to hers. Bursting through her door, he saw that she was curled tightly on her side in a fetal position, her back to him, trembling violently and sobbing pitifully. The covers around her were in complete disarray, some thrown off the bed altogether.

They were now halfway through their seventh year, and still it was like this every single night she forgot to take her dreamless sleep potion. He couldn't even begin to imagine how she would have gotten through the summer holidays, living in the Muggle world, where the potion was unobtainable, if he hadn't happened to have spent those same holidays with Professor Snape. Once a week like clockwork he had owled her a supply of the precious liquid; the only thing that allowed her to sleep nights. And yet now that they were back at Hogwarts where the potion was in plentiful supply, it seemed that at least once a week she forgot to take it.

Draco couldn't understand how she could keep forgetting something so important; she was such a meticulous person by nature, it didn't make sense. It was so unlike her, in fact, that he was just beginning to formulate a new theory; maybe Hermione, who was, after all, a fiercely independent person, resented her reliance on the potion and was deliberately missing some doses in the hopes of discovering, one night, that she no longer needed it. Was she doing this to herself on purpose? He shook his head in frustration.

Crossing to her bed, he sat on the edge of it and gathered her into his arms. She stiffened against him for a moment, then seemed to melt into his embrace, sobbing with her face buried in his chest. He realized that she was drenched with cold sweat and that this was likely at least part of the reason she was shaking so badly. Awkwardly, not loosening his grip on her, he pulled over the nearest blanket, untangled it to the best of his ability, and drew it up over them both.

"Shhh," he murmured, rocking her gently. "It's all right. It was only a dream. I'm here now, it's okay. Dear heart, it's okay. You're safe… you're safe… it's all right…."

He continued to murmur soothing nonsense to her as she cried herself back to sleep in his arms. Finally, when her breathing was again deep and regular, with only an occasional hiccup as evidence that she had just sobbed herself nearly to the point of hyperventilation, Draco allowed himself to sag back against the headboard and close his eyes, exhausted.

Though his face showed only weariness and strain, inwardly he was raging. Raging against Voldemort, who was the cause of this; who had, last year, raped Hermione up against a wall, as Harry and Ron had looked on helplessly, held back by an invisible barrier, in a disused corridor right here at Hogwarts, a place that was supposed to be a safe haven; a sanctuary from evil. He had robbed her of her virginity (Draco had been astounded when he had learned this, seeing as none of his female Slytherin classmates had reached sixth year with their virginity intact- he knew this for a fact, having been largely responsible), shattered her innocence and what was worse, if possible, was the fact that he had done it in front of her two best- male- friends, for the express purpose of tormenting Harry. Draco actually found himself halfway regretting the fact that Voldemort was dead- he wanted to kill him again at this moment, and not with his wand, either. He wanted to rip him apart bare-handed. His fingers were actually twitching at the thought.

The rape had had far-reaching consequences, and truthfully, not all of them had been negative. Voldemort _was_ dead, after all, and that was a good thing, regardless of how much Draco would have liked to resurrect him at the moment, only to kill him again- and again- and again. And Draco's life had changed drastically, and mostly for the better. When he had come upon Hermione moments after the attack, cradled in Ron's arms, more than half-dead, he had been forced to consciously admit something to himself that he had known deep-down but had been denying for the better part of a year; he loved this girl. Loved her wholly and completely and fiercely; body, mind and soul. So when Potter and Weasley had gone AWOL to track Voldemort back to his lair and exact revenge, he had followed them, bringing with him, at her insistence, Hermione, who, typically, had demanded to be allowed to avenge herself. In the end, it had taken all four of them working together to defeat the Dark Lord, and Draco had very nearly died, not because of Voldemort, but because Potter, thinking he had brought Hermione against her will to deliver her to the Dark Lord, had stabbed him, just barely missing his heart.

He shook his head now, at the thought of it. Golden-Boy Potter- who would have thought he had it in him? Shit, but that had hurt. Once he had recovered, though, he had been hailed a hero- an entirely new experience for him, and rather an agreeable one at that- and had been resorted into Gryffindor House. Yes, this meant he had been disowned (his father had actually showed up at Hogwarts with murderous intent, but together with Potter, Weasley and Hermione he had managed to hold him off until Dumbledore had arrived and sent him packing), and yes, this meant that his former housemates, the Slytherins, had it in for him big-time, and were always trying to corner him alone in the hallways. But his disinheritance caused him no major concern because his grandparents had left him a fortune years ago, that he had recently come into on his seventeenth birthday, and as for the Slytherins- he was confident that he could handle them easily enough should the need arise. So far it hadn't. His new housemates (especially Potter and Weasley) were fiercely protective- the Slytherins had failed thus far in their attempts to isolate him.

So yes, there were drawbacks, but they were far outweighed by the advantages of his new life. The biggest of these being, of course, Hermione's love. It still amazed him when he took the time to really think about it, that she could love him as much as he did her- he felt wholly unworthy of her, after the way he had treated her and her friends for so many years. Yet she did return his love, and they had been dating since the night of his resorting; they had recently celebrated their one-year anniversary, in fact. They were easily the most celebrated couple in the school, seeing as they were Head Boy and Girl, and most of the student body treated their romance as a sort of fairy-tale come true; a real-life beauty- tames-the-beast story, since it was common knowledge that it was his love for her that had wrought this incredible change in Draco. But most of the student body failed to see what Draco was seeing right now- the fallout of the atrocity that had set this entire chain of events into motion- Hermione's rape. While the whole school knew that Voldemort had attacked Hermione, Harry and Ron were the only students beside Draco who knew that the attack had been sexual. And even they didn't know about these chronic night-terrors. Draco was the only one who heard her cries in the dark, since their rooms were so close to each other; located off a small private corridor that opened into the Gryffindor common room, beside the fireplace. (Each House within the school contained a similar pair of Head rooms- Percy had been the last to occupy the Gryffindor Head Boy's room four years ago, while his girlfriend Penelope had been in the Ravenclaw Head Girl's room, but both Gryffindor Head rooms had not been occupied at the same time like this since the days of Lily Evans and James Potter.)

It wasn't as if Harry and Ron couldn't sense something wrong, however. Of course they could. They had been so close to Hermione for so long that they couldn't fail to notice the changes in her lately. Her pallid complexion and the dark circles under her eyes that were sure signs of mounting sleep deprivation, coupled with a new tendency to doze off in the library, and once or twice now even in class, with her head on a pile of books, only to wake moments later with a violent start. Then there was her steadily dwindling appetite, and a new (and hitherto completely uncharacteristic) hesitance to walk the halls of the school alone. Yes, Ron and Harry could see as well as Draco that she was suffering both physically and emotionally, and that her condition was worsening with time, rather than improving as they had hoped it might.

The confident, outspoken girl she had been prior to the attack was fading away, and none of the three boys closest to her had any idea how to halt the process that was, slowly but surely, robbing them of the Hermione they knew and loved.

Furthermore, each of the three boys had demons of their own to battle.

Harry. He was being eaten alive by guilt because he knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the one and only reason Voldemort had attacked Hermione had been to torment him by forcing him to watch. Hermione had been nothing more to Voldemort than a means to an end; a way to make Harry suffer. Because his friends meant more to Harry than his own life, as Voldemort had well known. So suffer he had, and he still continued to do so a year after the Dark Lord's demise.

Ron. Like Harry, he had witnessed the rape and been unable to do anything to stop it. His guilt stemmed in part from this helplessness to save the girl he loved (and he did love her, oh yes- Draco knew this for a fact and accepted it without rancor, secure in the knowledge of Hermione's love for him), but Ron's guilt was more complex- he had, characteristically, been yelling at Hermione moments before the attack, and it was his harsh, angry words that had sent her dashing off alone, around a bend in the corridor and straight into Voldemort, who had been waiting to ambush Harry but had changed his plan when Hermione had presented herself as such an easy target. This, indeed, was the true root of Ron's agony.

And then there was Draco himself. All he bore was simply the guilt and regret of an entire lifetime, up until last year, wasted in the service of a monster. All his life he had been raised to revere Voldemort; groomed to one day take over his father's position as the Dark Lord's right-hand man. But that was before Voldemort had very nearly killed Hermione- the one friend (for that's what she had been at the time; his friend- the romance had come later) he had ever actually cared about.

He sighed and shook his head again, wearily. Hermione, responding to his unhappiness on some basic level, stirred and whimpered in his arms, but remained asleep. He dropped a kiss on the top of her head, then let his own head fall back against the bed once more.

"You gotta stop doing this to yourself, Hermione," he whispered, only because he was sure she couldn't hear him. "I can't stand it. It kills me. I love you so… so much…."

He drifted away into a troubled, almost feverish sleep.

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At breakfast in the Great Hall some five days later, both Hermione and Draco were unusually subdued, even by their normal standards of late.

For Draco, this was because he had just been released that morning after having spent two full days in the hospital wing; the aftermath of a Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match three days earlier.

These matches were pure hell for Draco, due to the fact that the only objective of the entire Slytherin team was to knock him off his broom as violently as possible, as far from the ground as possible, and hopefully kill him. Really, it was only his utter, dogged determination not to let the Slytherins best him once and for all that kept him playing Quidditch; he had lost most of his love for the sport when he had had to give up the position of seeker. He was still a damn good flyer, and a skilled and aggressive beater, and an overall asset to the Gryffindor team, but he no longer looked forward to the matches with the keen anticipation that he always had as a Slytherin. Of course once he'd been resorted into Gryffindor he had known he could no longer play seeker; though they had welcomed him with remarkable ease into their midst, considering all the previous years of violent animosity, it had been too much to hope for that the Gryffindors would allow him to replace Potter; that would have been out of the question. Potter had brought them far too many victories over the years- he was a legendary seeker- youngest in a hundred blah blah blah. Plus Draco had never once beat him to the snitch, so based on that alone Potter was the obvious choice for seeker in his seventh and final year. Draco understood this. Still, he missed the thrill of the hunt for the snitch- missed the exultation of feeling his fingers close about the tiny, fluttering object, feeling the rapid beat of its wings against the cage of his hand. For he had caught it many times as a Slytherin- just never against Potter.

And he had come to realize in the time he had been playing alongside Potter instead of against him, that it was this knowledge, the knowledge that he had never yet beaten Hogwarts' golden boy, together with his fiercely competitive nature, that had been his driving motivation as Slytherin seeker; that had caused the keen anticipation he remembered feeling before every match he had played against Gryffindor- the thought that this might be the game, this might be the day- _his_ day- when he would finally beat Potter to that bloody snitch. Ah, but that victory would have been sweet- and now it was never to come. Looking back, he had to admit to himself (he would _never_ admit it to anyone else) that the game of Quidditch had soured for him as soon as he had realized that he would never again be in competition with Potter.

Still, one must keep up appearances, so resigning the team was not an option, and the matches against Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were borderline enjoyable; it was, at least, excellent stress relief to hit large, heavy objects at other students and attempt to knock them into space all in the name of good, sporting fun. He had discovered quite a talent for it, too. But these matches against Slytherin- ye fucking gods. They were a bloody nightmare, from start to finish. His former teammates literally _did not care_ whether or not they won- he supposed after seven years they had realized that Potter was pretty much unbeatable anyway- and so they applied themselves fully- _all_ of them, from the keeper to the new seeker- to attempting to murder him. The only mercy was that the matches were usually short, since Potter, unimpeded in his search for the snitch, always caught it quickly.

This most recent match, for instance, had ended in eight minutes, with Potter capturing the snitch at precisely the same instant that, at the opposite end of the field, Draco was hit with both Slytherin bludgers at once; one in the face, breaking his jaw and rendering him unconscious, and the other in the stomach, knocking him from his broom to the ground some fifteen feet below (he made a point of flying low when playing Slytherin). The first twenty-four hours after the match he had spent out cold; the second, merely in intense pain. The match had been played bright and early on a Saturday morning, so there had gone his weekend, and it had been a Hogsmeade weekend too, goddamn it all to hell. But here he was on Monday morning, having just been released by Madam Pomfrey, fit as a fiddle and ready for the day's classes, the first of which, right after breakfast, would be- double advanced potions with the Slytherins. Well wasn't life just frickin grand?

As for Hermione, she had spent the last two days by Draco's bedside, forgoing the Hogsmeade trip herself. However, despite her constant vigil during the daylight hours, Madam Pomfrey had refused to allow her to sleep in the hospital wing, the fact that it was the weekend notwithstanding. As a result, she had had two nights in a row of horrifyingly vivid nightmares, with no Draco to hear her cries and comfort her. The first night she had stumbled back to her room from the infirmary and fallen into bed exhausted, forgetting (genuinely this time) to take her potion; the second night, she had remembered to take it- how could she not, after the horrors of the night before- but the dream had come anyway; maybe it was due to the unusual amount of stress she was under, worrying about Draco, or maybe her dosage just needed to be upped. In either case, the dreams had been the same both nights; they had started out with her watching helplessly as Draco fell from his broom, unconscious, toward the hard and rock-strewn ground some fifty feet below, as the Slytherin Quidditch team jeered and turned somersaults in the air- but they had ended, as she knew they must, as all her nightmares did, with her once again in that dank corridor deep under the school, being pinned to the wall by Voldemort.

Both times, she had awakened in the dead of night to the sound of her own frantic screams, and had then laid awake, sobbing and shaking, until dawn.

Hence both Draco's, and Hermione's, subdued state that morning.

They were sitting next to each other at the long Gryffindor table, picking at their respective breakfasts, Hermione slumped exhaustedly against Draco's side, wondering how on earth she was going to make it through a day of classes when she had had perhaps six hours combined of restless, nightmare-strewn sleep over the course of the last two nights, when Dumbledore approached them, looking as every bit as sleep-deprived as Hermione felt, and extremely grave. Raising bloodshot eyes to the headmaster's face, Hermione knew instantly that this did not bode well.

Leaning close over the table, Dumbledore murmured, "Would you be so kind as to come directly to my office after breakfast, Mr. Malfoy? I have already made your excuses to professor Snape. The password is canary crème." Then, without another word to either of them, he left the hall.

Hermione glanced anxiously at Draco, who was merely looking dazed. _How hard did that bludger hit his head, anyway?_ She thought fretfully. Finally dropping all pretense of eating, she pushed her plate away and her hand found Draco's under the table and gripped it hard. "I'm coming with you," she said, quietly but firmly.

Draco blinked at her, then his pale eyes seemed to come back into focus. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, sure." He looked listlessly down at his plate, then pushed it away as well. "C'mon- I don't see any point in hanging around here. Let's go see what this is about."

They stood together and Hermione glanced up toward the staff table, her tired eyes seeking Snape. She saw that he was already watching them, and when his eyes met hers, he inclined his head ever so slightly in her direction. She returned the gesture gratefully; he had just given her permission to miss potions, in order to accompany Draco. She then allowed her boyfriend to pull her by the hand out of the Great Hall.

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It was with a sense of deep foreboding that the young couple stood outside the gargoyle-guarded entrance to Dumbledore's office. "Canary crème," Draco said dully, and the stone gargoyle leapt aside, granting them clear passage through the door behind it and up the moving spiral staircase beyond.

"Come in," called Dumbledore's voice, just as they reached the top and Draco raised his hand to knock on the heavy wooden door across the landing. With a last glance at one another, they obeyed.

"Ah, yes," said Dumbledore. He surveyed them both over the tops of his half-moon spectacles, but his eyes held no sign of their usual sparkle. He looked as old and tired and grim as he had in the Great Hall. "Miss Granger- I had rather thought you might come. And Mister Malfoy- I have received some very distressing intelligence. There is no easy way to say this, so I shall choose the simplest way instead. A new Dark Lord is ascending to power; he is already well on his way." He paused for a moment to allow this news to sink in, then continued; "he is gathering Voldemort's former Death Eaters to him and many have pledged him their loyalty already- many, but not all of them. According to my intelligence, there is a task he will need to perform in order to secure the unswerving loyalty of all Voldemort's followers and thus complete his army. He must kill you."

Draco was barely aware of Hermione's horrified gasp beside him; his ears were suddenly ringing and he felt lightheaded. And yet he had seen this coming- had seen it a long way off, truth to tell. There is a subtle difference between shock and surprise; Draco was in shock. He was not, however, at all surprised by this news.

Faintly, over the ringing in his ears, he heard Dumbledore say, "Draco?"

"Father," he croaked.

Dumbledore came around the desk and gently clasped Draco's shoulder. "Draco?" he repeated, "do you need to sit down?" Draco shook his head and in so doing, succeeded in clearing some of the fog out of it. He looked around for Hermione and found that she had sunk into one of Dumbledore's plush armchairs, looking as pale as a ghost.

"It's my father," he repeated, returning his attention to the headmaster, "isn't it?"

"I'm afraid so," Dumbledore replied gravely. "The world has a new Dark Lord to contend with; Lucius Malfoy."


	2. Chapter 2: Bloody Awful News

With a choked cry, Hermione dropped her face forward into her hands.

Normally she would never have succumbed to her fear in front of the headmaster like this- it was of the utmost importance to her that she project an appearance of outward calm and capability to all authority figures, including Dumbledore, at all times. Crying in front of teachers was simply not something she did. In fact, crying at all, except for in the wake of her night terrors, was simply not something she did. But she couldn't help herself now. Her defenses had crumbled completely under the onslaught of Draco's injuries and the two hellish nights she had just experienced, and this news was simply too much to take. If she lost Draco- oh God. It didn't bear thinking about. She had almost lost him once- she didn't think she could go through that again with her sanity intact.

She broke down and began to sob in earnest, cursing herself all the while for showing such weakness in front of Dumbledore, and for further burdening Draco with an hysterical girlfriend when he surely already had plenty to worry about.

He was on his knees in front of her in an instant, his own troubles apparently forgotten at the sight of her in distress. "Hey," he murmured, catching both her hands in his, "you all right?"

"I'm sorry," she choked, pulling one hand free and scrubbing the back of it vigorously across her puffy eyes. "I just- I don't know what-"

Her mind was in a whirl, her thoughts all jumbled up. There was only one thing she could think of to do in a situation like this; only one place she could go that could possibly calm her. "I need to- um- g-go to the library."

She shot to her feet and, pulling her other hand away from him, bolted for the office door, without so much as another glance at Draco or at Dumbledore.

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She was halfway down the spiral staircase before Draco had gathered his wits about him sufficiently to start after her- but before he could take more than two steps toward the door, the headmaster laid a restraining hand on his arm.

"You know where to find Miss Granger," Dumbledore said with a sad smile, "but before you go after her, there is much we need to discuss. I have a source within your father's inner circle who has been providing me with some useful information, and I want to be sure that you know absolutely everything I do. I once made the mistake of keeping Mister Potter in the dark about Voldemort's plans for him, and it was quite possibly the most grievous error I have ever made. I intend not to repeat it. You shall know everything I know about your father's plans, as soon as I know it. So please, Mister Malfoy- have faith that our Head Girl is a remarkably strong young woman who can look after herself for the time being, and do sit down."

With a last pained glance at the door, Draco grudgingly complied.

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Hermione's day just went from bad to worse.

She remained in the library, feverishly perusing huge old tomes on the rise to power of previous dark wizards, for the duration of potions, which, being a double period, lasted until lunch. By the end of her research session, her eyes kept slipping shut despite herself, and her chin was propped heavily on her hand, elbow on the table beside the massive book she had spread open before her. When Madam Pince rang the little silver bell she kept on her desk, signifying the end of morning classes and the beginning of lunch, Hermione, very nearly asleep, started violently- her arm jerked and her head fell to the open book. She hit it chin first, biting her tongue.

Tears of pain and sheer tiredness were threatening as she gathered up her belongings, plus the book she had been reading- a 5,200 page volume entitled "The Careers of Dark Wizards Through the Ages", and headed down to the Great Hall for lunch, more from force of habit than out of any real desire to eat.

Indeed, once she was seated at the Gryffindor table, the sight of the dozens of platters heaped with steaming food caused her stomach to turn over queasily. Muttering something incoherent to Ginny, who had just settled herself beside her- neither Draco, nor Harry and Ron were anywhere in sight- she popped back up from the table less than a minute after having seated herself and, grabbing only an apple from a nearby fruit bowl, beat a hasty retreat from the hall.

She ate the apple sitting on the front steps of the school, and felt somewhat revived afterward, both from the nourishment of the fruit and from the stiff breeze and slight chill outside. It was enough to see her through advanced transfiguration, though for once she was relieved that McGonagall never called on her during class. She began to fade again, however, during the final class of the day, History of Magic.

Draco was still missing. She hadn't worried too much about missing him at lunch, having elected to remove herself from the Great Hall before most students had arrived, and she didn't have transfiguration with him, and so hadn't expected to see him there, but they did share this class, and she was troubled by his absence. Harry and Ron, who also shared this class with her, made a beeline for her when entering the classroom, seated themselves on either side of her, and questioned her anxiously about her whereabouts at lunch- it seemed that they had been searching for her in the library during the brief appearance she had made in the Great Hall, and had reached the hall only moments after she had left, to be informed by Ginny that she had rushed out, looking ill.

She spoke words of reassurance, but Ron and Harry, listening less to the words themselves than to the dull, flat tone in which they were spoken, shot one another worried glances over the top of her head, appearing to be anything but reassured. She caught this, of course- if the two of them were trying to be inconspicuous, they were failing miserably- and was torn between amusement and annoyance. _Just like a pair of mother hens,_ she thought, with an infinitesimal shake of her head.

And then class started and all her attention was absorbed by note-taking as she dutifully wrote down every single thing Professor Binns said, though none of the lecture actually penetrated her thoughts, which were all bent on Draco. She had a vague feeling that when she read her notes over later, it would be as if the material were brand-new to her. She almost wished she could give herself permission to lay down her quill and doze like the others all around her, but that simply wasn't who she was. So she wrote, and wrote, and wrote, her hand moving mechanically across the parchment while her mind whirled with anxiety and fatigue.

It was undoubtedly this fatigue, coupled with the fact that she had eaten practically nothing all day, that caused the drama at the end of the class. It happened just after Binns had floated away through the blackboard, as was his custom. All around the room, students were reviving from the collective stupor that had overtaken them during the lecture, were gathering up their belongings, beginning to chat animatedly, and heading for the door, for the Great Hall and dinner, content in the knowledge that Monday was drawing to a close and now only four days stood between them and the next glorious weekend.

All except for Hermione. When Binns had stopped lecturing, her quill had ceased moving, but she had not raised her head. To the contrary, she seemed to droop forward, over her parchment, her nose inches from the desk, her face all but hidden by the curtain of her thick, dark hair, her eyes open but glazed with exhaustion.

It was Harry who noticed her alarming state; Ron was already on his feet, cramming his things quickly and hap-hazardly into his bag, all his thoughts bent on dinner.

"Hermione?" Harry asked softly, trying to keep the sudden, desperate worry out of his voice. No response. If anything, her head seemed to slip a fraction of an inch lower, toward the desk. Her eyes began to fall shut. "Hey- Hermione. Snap out of it. Earth to Hermione-" and he nudged her gently on the shoulder.

Whatever he might have been expecting, it was certainly not the violent reaction his gentle touch provoked. She gave a startled gasp, her eyes flew wide open, and she shot to her feet with a panicked cry of "NO!" Then, before Harry even had time to stand up, she swayed, her eyelids fluttered, and she collapsed in a dead faint, falling sideways into Ron.

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Later, she would have no recollection of fainting. No recollection of slumping against Ron as Harry sprang to his feet with a cry of alarm and Ron, drawing on his Keeper instincts, reacted with lightning speed, dropping his bag and clasping her in his arms with a startled oath. No recollection of Ron sinking slowly to the floor with her clasped tightly to his chest, saying her name again and again in a voice that was suddenly, oddly constrained, pushing her tumbled hair back from her face as Harry crouched beside them both, shaking with reaction.

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The next thing she remembered was blinking up in confusion at Ron, who was leaning over her, upside down from her point of view. His eyes, wide and startlingly blue this close up, were overbright and unguarded, and held an expression of naked fear and- love.

The last time Hermione had seen that expression on his face was that night over a year ago when she had fallen off his broomstick. Once they were both safe on the ground, he had declared his love for her, for the third and final time, telling her it was the last time he would say it, but that he would mean it forever. She had started dating Draco the following night. True to his word, Ron had never mentioned his feelings again, but in this one brief, unguarded instant, she could clearly see that nothing had changed.

She was too disoriented, however, to dwell on this. "Ron?" she whispered, her brows knitting as she tried to piece together just what had happened; why she was suddenly lying flat on her back on the classroom floor, her head cradled in her best friend's lap while he looked as though he was teetering on the brink of outright panic.

"S'okay, love," he said hoarsely, and brought a big, Quidditch-roughened hand up to cup the side of her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

She took a deep breath and attempted to lever herself up onto her elbows, but before she could, Harry was looming over her as well, gently but firmly pushing her back. "Stay still," he murmured, "Madam Pomfrey's on the way."

This was getting really worrisome. She looked from one to the other, her eyes wide, questioning, and the echo of an earlier thought ran through her head- _mother hens._ But it didn't seem even remotely amusing now. What was she doing on the floor? Why were her friends treating her as though she were made of glass? And where was-

_Draco._

She turned her head at the sound of a disturbance near the classroom door and there he was, racing toward her, vaulting over desks and shoving gawking students savagely out of his way. He reached her in an instant, throwing himself to the floor a good three feet from where she lay and skidding the final distance on his knees.

Looking back over his shoulder, he snarled at the students who remained clustered around them; "this is not a fucking sideshow! Get the hell out of here, NOW!" As they scurried away- Draco, for all his new status as romantic hero among Hogwarts' female population, was still capable of striking fear in most of the student body when irate- he turned back toward her, and she could see that his face was a mirror of Ron's.

Love and fear.

Fear and love.

She was almost more surprised to see these emotions on Draco's face than on Ron's. Though it was Draco who was her boyfriend, and though she was sure deep down that he did indeed love her, he was far from the demonstrative type. Unlike Ron, who had been trying to keep a brave face on since she had chosen Draco over him, but whose natural inclination was to wear his heart on his sleeve, and who Hermione was sure would have been a very expressive lover if given the opportunity, Draco kept close rein on his emotions at all times, even when the two of them were alone together. He had only ever admitted his love to her once, and that had been right before they had confronted Voldemort; an encounter he hadn't thought he would survive.

Ron hid his feelings because she had not chosen him. Draco hid his feelings even though she had.

And right now, seeing first one and then the other reveal himself to her in a moment of near frantic fear frightened her deeply. What the hell had happened here to scare them both so badly?

"Draco," she said uncertainly.

He reached out with both hands and framed her face between them- she realized distantly that Ron had withdrawn his own hand from her cheek. "I'm sorry I didn't come after you this morning," he said quietly; "Dumbledore kept me all day. He only just let me go and I came here to meet you so we could go to dinner together and that cluster of _morons_-" his face contorted for a moment with anger- "at the classroom door were saying you- that you-" he abruptly shook his head, pulled his hands away, and ran them through his silvery hair. "Jesus Christ, Hermione, are you trying to scare me to death?"

Hermione was taken aback. "Draco, no- I…" she trailed off, unsure what to say, and alarmed at the feeling of tears pricking the backs of her eyes; God, what was wrong with her? She didn't want to cry again today!

And then, as she stared up at Draco, it was as if shutters behind his eyes snapped shut, hiding the love, hiding the fear, as he retreated behind an emotion that was, to him, far more familiar and comfortable; anger. When next he spoke, his voice was harsh.

"Well then what the hell are you playing at, eh? Cause you're doing a damn good job for not trying! As if I don't have enough on my plate, now I have to worry about- Goddamn it! You've been taking shitty care of yourself lately, and now it's gone too far. This has to stop!"

Not trusting herself to speak without dissolving into tears, Hermione swallowed hard. It was Ron who spoke for her then, his voice low and dangerous.

"She doesn't need this right now, Malfoy. Back the fuck off."

Draco's pale eyes left hers then, snapping onto Ron's, and the two boys glared at each other, neither backing down, in mute hostility as Hermione continued to struggle against the threatening tears, knowing that she had brought about this miserable state of affairs; that this was all her fault.

Fortunately, the staring contest was cut short as Madam Pomfrey arrived, accompanied by the Gryffindor head of house, Professor McGonagall, and the two women shooed all three boys away as Madam Pomfrey set to checking Hermione over.

The examination lasted about fifteen minutes and at the end of it Madam Pomfrey declared Hermione to be no more than overtired and underfed. Rummaging around in the many pockets of her robe and apron, she eventually produced two items which she handed to the distraught girl; a large chunk of chocolate and a vial of extra strong dreamless sleep potion. She made Hermione eat the entire block of chocolate right then and there, watching like a hawk to ensure that she swallowed every last morsel, and as she did so, she explained that she had had Professor Snape concoct the modified potion especially for her. Finally, she released her with strict instructions to go down to the kitchens- dinner now being nearly over- and have the house elves make her up a plate.

"That chocolate should give you enough energy to go downstairs and get yourself some decent food, but it is not, in itself, a suitable dinner. You are under no circumstances to go back to Gryffindor Tower until you've put some hot food in you, is that understood?" she asked sternly. Hermione nodded meekly. "Good," the mediwitch said briskly; "then get going, girl. Your friends will be most anxious to know you're all right."

Released, Hermione slowly packed up her bookbag and slung it over her shoulder, staggering slightly under its weight. She walked out of the classroom door slowly; apprehensively. She wanted nothing more than the comfort and security of Draco's arms, yet was desperately worried that he would still be angry. In her current state, she wasn't sure she could take that. And Ron- God, he and Draco had looked as if they were about to kill each other- all because of her, because she was weak, weak, weak.

The corridor right outside the classroom door was empty, but as she turned a corner in the hall, headed for the marble stairs and, ultimately, the kitchens below, she came abruptly upon the three boys who were her world at Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall had apparently been unable to banish them any further than this. They were sitting in a row on the stone floor of the corridor, their backs against the wall. Harry, in the middle- Hermione was sure this was no accident- had his head leaned back, face tilted up toward the ceiling, but she could see that behind the glasses his eyes were closed. His hands- those Seeker's hands, so swift, so skilled- were dangling loosely between his up-drawn knees. He looked as tired and haggard, as run-into-the-ground, as she felt. Ron, on Harry's right side, had his arms crossed tightly over his chest and was staring straight ahead into nothingness, his jaw set, his expression grim and angry. But it was Draco, on Harry's left, who most arrested Hermione's attention. His knees, like Harry's, were drawn up, but he had rested his elbows on them and dropped his face forward into his hands so that it was entirely hidden from view. His fingers were clenched in his fine, pale hair. His entire aspect was one of utter, abject despair.

Hermione halted in her tracks and stood stock still staring at the boys, Draco in particular. Seeing him that way hurt her right down to the core. Suddenly numb and nerveless, she let her bookbag slide from her shoulder; it hit the floor with a heavy thud.

This got the attention of all three boys, but it was Draco who reacted the fastest. By the time Ron and Harry had gained their feet, he had already reached Hermione, having unfurled himself instantly, with almost feline grace and speed, and crossed the distance between them in two long strides. Without a word, without a pause, he engulfed her in his strong arms, burying his face in her hair. She could feel that he was shaking.

She knew this was the closest she would get to an apology for his earlier harsh words. It was enough.

Draco released her at long last and as he bent to retrieve her bag and sling it over his own shoulder, she glanced at Harry and Ron. They were just turning away, Harry's arm slung over Ron's shoulder, but the brief glimpse she got of the redhead's face caused her to draw in a sharp, unhappy breath; he looked more bitter than she had ever seen him- more bitter than she had imagined it was possible for a person to look. She wanted to run to him, comfort him, but she could not; what comfort could she offer when she was the cause of it all?

And then the moment had passed and the four of them were walking; they parted ways at the marble stairs where Harry and Ron, reassured by seeing her back on her feet, headed straight up to Gryffindor Tower and she and Draco took a detour down to the kitchens.

00000

She made sure she ate regularly three times a day after that, though she rarely felt hungry or took any pleasure in mealtimes. She viewed food, in her logical way, as a necessary fuel that she required so as not to repeat her disastrous fainting episode. After a few days of glaring, Ron and Draco subsided first into a cautious truce and finally back into the odd state of pseudo-friendship they had maintained since Draco's resorting. Harry, who was now almost as close to Draco as he was to Ron (the friendship between Hogwarts' golden boy and the former Slytherin bad boy had gotten off to a rather rocky start, true, what with Harry having attempted to stab Draco to death, but had developed nicely since), was ever on the alert should he be called upon to act as peacekeeper, but no more crises seemed apt to present themselves any time soon.

Hermione even began catching up on missed sleep, as the new, more potent sleeping draught Madam Pomfrey had given her promised to keep her chronic nightmares at bay.

All seemed well.

For a while.


	3. Chapter 3: Deep Distress

Weeks passed.

For a while, Dumbledore would meet with Draco for a few minutes every day, giving him whatever new information was to be had about his father's plans, vague though it often was. After a while, though, the information stopped coming altogether; it appeared that Lucius had discovered, or at least suspected, that he had an informant on his hands.

If Dumbledore was frustrated at the lack of new intelligence, it was nothing to how Draco felt. He had really only been given enough information to know for a fact what he had suspected anyway; that his father wanted him- wanted him alive, but only for the pleasure of murdering him personally, as he had already attempted to do once. How his father intended to capture him remained undiscovered, and the effect that this had on Draco was predictable; he was becoming rather frayed around the edges.

He flatly refused to modify his routine in any way due to the threat his father posed; to do so would be to grant his father a victory over him, which was something he never intended to do. So he continued to go with Hermione to Hogsmeade whenever the opportunity presented itself though Dumbledore, stopping just short of forbidding him, made it clear that he disapproved, pointing out that it was a likely point of attack. He also continued to sneak out several nights a week- no one knew about this but Hermione- to fly solo over the school grounds and forbidden forest. He loved the quiet and solitude of these nocturnal flights, and it was then that he got some of his best thinking done.

But despite the fact that he would not allow himself to be cowed by his father into hiding inside the school, Draco was constantly worried and stressed out; how could he not be, knowing that plans were being made on his life, but not knowing what those plans were? As a result, and understandably, really, he was becoming more and more short-tempered and snappish as time wore on and no new information was forthcoming- and the person who bore the brunt of his irritability was, of course, the person who was closest to him in every way; Hermione.

00000

Defeated, Hermione dropped her head forward into her hands. Another spate of giggling had come from beyond the large bookshelf, and her concentration was shot. Draco had snapped at her again, as was becoming more and more common these days, and so she had escaped to the solitude of the library to be alone with her thoughts. Settling herself at a small, out-of-the-way table and spreading a large book open before her, she had given the appearance of being deeply engrossed in study, as usual, but really she was contemplating the Draco situation.

Last night had been hard on them both. She had decided, for the first time in several weeks, to attempt a night's sleep without the aid of the dreamless sleep potion, and as a result the nightmare had returned full force. She had awakened, gasping, drenched in cold sweat, in the dead of night and had immediately clamped down on the scream that was threatening to escape her, not wanting to wake Draco. However, it seemed that she must have already cried out while still asleep, for in the next instant he was there, bleary eyed and tousle haired, demanding to know why in the hell she insisted on doing this to herself, to _both of them._ She had dissolved into tears, those hated, weak tears that seemed always to be lurking just behind her eyes these days, and Draco had run a hand through his hair, hair the color of the moonlight that was streaming through her window, hair that was baby fine and sticking up weirdly in all directions- a rumpled silver halo- had sighed, sat on the edge of her bed, and pulled her into his arms.

Neither of them had slept again, but they had held each other until dawn and, safely ensconced in Draco's arms, she had felt that the two of them together could handle whatever was thrown their way. But then Draco had snapped at her, right in the crowded entry hall after breakfast, and damn it, she KNEW the stress he was under, but that didn't stop it from hurting. It hurt like hell. It had been all she could do to hold herself together, but she had, in large part because Harry and Ron were still breakfasting in the Great Hall, right through the open double doors not ten feet from where she'd been standing, and she hadn't wanted to cause a scene that would result in them running out there and Ron possibly flying off the handle. So she had stalked away with as much dignity as she could muster, had tracked down Professor Vector, who taught Arithmancy, her first period of the day, and had requested that she be allowed to spend the period doing independent study in the library. It was one of the benefits of being Head Girl and the top student in the school that the professor had readily agreed.

But now she couldn't even hear herself think due to all the whispering and sniggering coming from behind the bookcase and God, she knew whose voice that was- it was Pansy Parkinson and her gang of Slytherin girls; they had invaded the quiet library- shattered the fragile sense of sanctuary she had found there- for a gossip session. Hermione groaned softly into her hands. She so did not need this right now.

It had just occurred to her that in all probability they were skipping class, since first period was only half over, and that as Head Girl she would be perfectly within her rights to tell them off, deduct points from Slytherin, and most importantly, MAKE THEM LEAVE, when a snatch of the conversation caught her ear- Pansy had raised her voice slightly above the others- and, heart suddenly thumping painfully, stomach clenching, she leaned forward, listening intently.

"-see the look on her face?" Pansy was saying gleefully. "Seems there's trouble in paradise. If you ask me, I think the traitor is finally coming to his senses and realizing exactly what he's thrown away for that ugly little mudblood. Not that he'll ever be given a second chance by true Slytherins like us-" there was a hearty murmur of assent at this- "but- just between you and me-" her voice lowered conspiratorially- "I think I'm going to try my hand at seducing him!" This proclamation was met by fits of giggles and a few soft, scandalized exclamations. "Not because I have any _feelings_ for traitor boy, mind you," Pansy continued; "it will just hasten the breakup, that's all! The way I see it, that's what's causing their trouble; Draco was always a- a very _physical_ person, shall we say-" more fits of giggles and some knowing murmurs; "after a year, being with that frigid bitch Granger must be driving him up the wall! I mean, God, I bet her legs are, like, _locked _together at the knees! Granger, the perpetual virgin!"

"Yeah," came a thick, nasal voice that Hermione recognized as Millicent Bulstrode; "I bet the mudblood wears a chastity belt! Put on her by the Weasel!" Gales of laughter greeted this; they weren't even trying to keep it down anymore. Madame Pince must be filing books in the restricted section or something; clearly, she wasn't nearby.

Hermione felt as though she were sitting in a vacuum; all the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room; suddenly, she couldn't get a proper breath, and it felt as though the library had started to spin. Not consciously aware of what she was doing, she began to shake her head, and raised her hands to cover her ears. The things they were saying- on top of her nightmare last night, still fresh in her mind, and then the trouble with Draco this morning, it was too much; she couldn't take this. She just couldn't. _Granger the perpetual virgin_- if only they knew!

She shot to her feet, nearly knocking her book to the floor. She couldn't stay here a moment longer. She didn't know where she could go- if the library was no longer a safe haven for her, then what was?- but she had to get out of here. Right now.

In order to reach the library door, she had to pass the table at which the Slytherin girls sat. She managed to hold it together long enough to get by them; walked out from behind the bookcase and past the snickering group- which fell suddenly silent at the sight of her- head held high and eyes for once miraculously dry. Dry and blazing as she sought out and held Pansy's gaze, not breaking it until she was well beyond them and nearly to the door, which she passed though unhurriedly, pulling it firmly shut behind her.

Then she was off and running. Realizing vaguely that she had left her book, her schoolbag, all her belongings back in the library, not caring; she wouldn't go back in there now, not for love nor money. Realizing, not vaguely at all but with perfect clarity, that the expression of spiteful triumph in Pansy's eyes had said, louder than words ever could, that she had planned it all; had somehow known that Hermione was in there, just out of the line of vision of her little group, and had orchestrated that conversation on purpose; had perhaps seen Hermione entering the library and had skipped class and led her cronies in there deliberately for the sole purpose of tormenting her.

And then the tears were there; burning, stinging her eyes, blurring her vision as she raced through the halls with no conscious awareness of where her feet were taking her- not CARING where her feet were taking her, as long as it was away, far away from the library.

The halls were empty; everyone was in class. She was feeling distantly grateful for that fact as she rounded a corner and- slammed into something; a tall, solid, silver-haired something that said "Ooph" and stumbled back a step, nearly falling, but just managing to keep his balance. Draco, who shared her advanced Arithmancy class and had been sent by professor Vector to ask her to rejoin the last twenty minutes of class in order to hear the week's assignment. She stopped for just a moment, panting, staring up at him with haunted, streaming eyes, then shoved him aside and ran on, ignoring his cry of "HERMIONE!", ignoring his footsteps behind her. She was going to run until she found a safe place or until she could run no more; if Draco wanted to run with her, fine, but woe betide him should he try to stop her.

She found herself taking every turn that led down stairs; it was easier and faster than trying to run up. She thought that Draco might be able to catch her if she ran upstairs, and that, she felt strongly, would be bad for both of them. Lower and lower through the school she fled, Draco shouting after her, until she found herself in the dungeons, tearing past the open classroom door beyond which Snape was overseeing a group of third-year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws engaged in brewing an elementary shrinking potion.

She was unaware of his startled glance as first the Head Girl, then the Head Boy raced past his room, unaware of his ordering the surprised younger students to stop what they were doing and sit tight until he returned, unaware of his leaving a class unsupervised for the first time in his career in order to give chase. She was already down two more flights of stairs by then, deep in the bowels of the school, where virtually no one ever came, in a cold, dimly lit corridor; a deserted corridor where, a little over a year ago-

God. Oh God.

She had been looking for a safe place, and her feet had brought her here. Here. Oh God, no.

Still, she couldn't stop. Though she felt now that she was trapped in a waking nightmare- swimming, rather than running, through air that felt suddenly viscous and thick, she kept going; rounded a final bend in the corridor and found herself back in that same stretch of dim hallway where her innocence had been ripped from her and her life had come crashing down.

She knew suddenly that she couldn't go on; this stretch of corridor, where such utter horror and pain had been visited on her, was trapping her, holding her tight. But still she didn't want Draco to catch her, didn't think she could bear to have him touch her, not now, not here. So she whirled about to face him, gasping for breath through her tears, bent nearly double from a stitch in her side, and, one arm wrapped about her midsection, threw the other one out, palm facing him, fingers splayed, in a silent, desperate command for him to stop, to come no closer.

He did stop, spreading his arms out at his sides, in a gesture that may have been intended to calm her, may have meant something akin to "I come in peace"; or may have simply been a sign of deep, helpless confusion. She could see from the horrified expression in his eyes that he too recognized this place. After all, he had come upon her here, unconscious in Ron's arms, shortly after the attack. She had no memory of this, but had been told as much.

Though Draco had stopped advancing, she continued to back away, widening the distance between them, her hand still flung out before her like a small, yet formidable, barricade, until her back hit the wall; cold, rough and damp this far below ground. The feel of that wall at her back was too much; her legs gave out and she fell to her knees, skinning them; her arm still, even now, extended, holding Draco at bay. Then the sobs took her. Huge, wracking sobs of despair, of grief for the part of herself that had been lost right there. Convulsive sobs that shook her slender body and stole her breath, compelled her to finally drop her arm because she needed both hands to steady herself against the floor, her head bowed forward under the weight of her sorrow so that she never saw Draco, some ten feet away, drop to his knees as well; never heard him cry out to her in a choked voice, begging her to tell him what had happened, for God's sake, why was she doing this? Sobs so wrenching and violent that they couldn't be sustained; a moment later she was gagging, retching, choking, struggling to breathe as she was pulled, barely half-conscious, backward into a strong embrace.

Not Draco's embrace.

She realized that instantly, because she recognized Draco's embrace; knew, unquestionably, the feel of his arms around her. A glance in his direction confirmed it; Draco remained on his knees several feet away, watching her, his expression stricken.

_Then who was holding her?_

An icy bolt of terror shot through her; panic at the thought that she was now being held immobile by some unknown entity in this place of horror. She stiffened, trying to get a deep breath, trying to rally what remained of her strength for a struggle, when a voice, soft but authoritative, spoke in her ear.

"Miss Granger, no harm will come to you. Now please, try to calm yourself."

Snape. She would recognize that voice anywhere. She wondered briefly, vaguely, how he had come to be here, but was too tired and distraught to dwell on it. It occurred to her that Snape must also recognize this place; Draco had told her that it was been the potions master who had carried her up to the infirmary from here. She relaxed back into his embrace, her head falling backward against his chest and her eyes slipping shut as exhaustion born of her flight overtook her. Her breath was still coming in shallow, rapid pants, but a feeling of security was spreading over her now; this man had helped her after the rape, and had snatched her from the air when she had fallen off Ron's broom; she had been safe in his arms twice before; she felt safe in his arms again now.

She was distantly aware of him talking to Draco over her head, giving him instructions.

"…blue crystal vial on the third shelf, right hand, in my private storeroom," he was saying; "you recall the password from when you were assisting me over the summer? Good. Bring it straight back here, and please dismiss my class; the period ends in ten minutes anyway…yes, we'll be right here; get going, boy!"

She heard Draco set off at a run, the pounding of his feet diminishing rapidly into the distance, and felt Snape sigh against her back. "I don't suppose you'll want to tell me what brought this on, will you, Miss Granger?" the potions master asked wearily. She shook her head mutely; she could feel herself drifting away. She _wanted_ to drift away; consciousness had seemed overrated of late.

"Did you come here on purpose?" Snape asked.

She shook her head again, more vigorously this time. God no, this was the last place in the world she had wanted to find herself, bar none. The last.

"I think I'm going to speak to the headmaster about closing this corridor off permanently," Snape said quietly, as much to himself as to her, it seemed. "It is seldom used anymore, and leads nowhere that cannot as easily be reached by other means. Would you like to see this place blocked off, Hermione?"

She nodded without hesitation. Yes, she would like that very much.

"Consider it done. You shouldn't have to worry about being confronted by this place ever again."

They were both quiet for some time as her breathing began to slow. Then, abruptly, Snape asked, "you do realize how much Draco loves you, do you not?"

"What?" The exclamation escaped her before she even had time to think about it, so taken aback was she by this sudden query. She sat up straight, pulling away from him, then scooted around to face him, scrubbing a sleeve back and forth across her face in an attempt to wipe her tears away, succeeding only in causing several curls of her disheveled hair to stick crosswise to her damp, flushed face.

To her utter astonishment, Snape, the most feared and loathed teacher in the school, raised his hand and pushed her hair back in a gesture both tender and undeniably paternal, then, flipping his hand so that it was the back, rather than the palm, that was touching her, pressed it to her cheeks and forehead, frowning.

"You seem quite warm to me," he said seriously, "and your color is high. I'm going to insist on bed-rest for the remainder of the day, and I don't want any arguments out of you. Understood, Miss Granger?"

She probably would have been inclined to argue despite all that had just happened- there was a Defense Against the Dark Arts quiz in the afternoon that she had studied quite hard for- but she was so preoccupied by Snape's mention of Draco that she agreed without thought.

"Yes, but- professor-"

Snape cocked an eyebrow, seeming to have forgotten the turn the conversation had taken before he had noticed her feverish state.

"You said- um- Draco-?"

"Oh, yes," Snape said, sounding pensive, "yes indeed. Draco. I've known Draco for a long time, Miss Granger, and I know that there are very few things that boy values in life, and even fewer people. If fact, as far as people go, I suspect that in a very real sense, you may be it. Certainly he has a good rapport with me, and even seems, for some reason I cannot begin to fathom, to be building a friendship with Potter-" his distaste was clearly evident in the way he spoke Harry's name- "but as far as real love goes- the kind of selfless love that would compel a person to lay down his life for another- I believe that Draco's world begins and ends with you."

Hermione stared at him for a long moment in mute shock, and when she did manage to find her voice again, she didn't quite know what to do with it. "Oh," she stammered, her eyes huge, "um-"

But Snape raised a hand, silencing her. "I know you were running from him when you stumbled down here," he said; "I don't know why, nor do I expect you to tell me. Out of all the teachers in this school, I am hardly the one most students choose to confide in- even the members of my own House, and certainly not Gryffindors. But I will say this- whatever was, or is, troubling you, don't shut Draco out. You're all he has. And though he may never tell you so in as many words, he needs you."

Hermione opened her mouth again, this time to protest that Draco was under a lot of stress and that she was actually the last thing he needed right now, the very LAST, as high-strung as she had been lately, bursting into tears at the slightest provocation; _fainting_, for God's sake- and she wasn't a fainting kind of girl! She hated girls that were, girls like Pansy herself, the cause of today's little scene, who had perfected the art of the dramatic swoon in order to bask in the fawning attention of boys too stupid to realize that it was an act. All this she wanted to say, but before the words could come tumbling out, the sound of running footsteps alerted her to Draco's return and she shut her mouth again with a snap as Draco rounded the corner and skidded to a halt beside her, dropping into a squat and handing the vial of potion to Snape, though his eyes stayed locked on her. Breathing hard, he pushed his pale, sweat-dampened hair back out of his face in an abrupt, somehow anxious gesture, but did not speak.

Snape, meanwhile, uncorked the vial and handed it to Hermione. "Drink this," he said curtly; "it's a restorative. It should return your breathing to normal, steady you on your feet, and bring your temperature back down. "However," he added, turning his gaze toward Draco (whose silver eyebrows had shot up at the mention of her temperature) though he continued to address Hermione, "I do still insist that you take the remainder of the day off class and use it to recover from this- ordeal. This potion cannot do for you what a day of rest can, and it is rest that you need. I will speak to your other teachers and will trust Mister Malfoy here-" Draco gave a barely perceptible nod- "to look after you, since when it comes to missing class, I'm not entirely sure you can be relied upon to follow my directions, even when they are in your own best interests."

Hermione, studying his face as she downed the potion, was sure she saw the barest hint of a smile flit across it at these words. Was it possible that Snape- _Professor Snape-_ was teasing her? Then the potions master was pocketing the empty vial and standing, he and Draco were both offering her a hand up, and, muttering something about having to go and inspect the damage those dimwitted third years had done to his classroom in his absence, Snape vanished around the bend in the corridor and was gone.

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"Where are your things?" Draco asked, after a long and somewhat awkward silence.

Hermione looked around blankly for a moment before remembering. "I left them in the library. I-I was- in a hurry."

"I gathered that," Draco said. He reached out, as though to cup her cheek in his hand, but then pulled back, uncertain; clearly remembering how desperate she had been, just a few minutes before, to not have him touch her. "Are- are you all right?"

She nodded, looking away. She couldn't bear the flash of pain she had seen behind those ice blue eyes when he had withdrawn his hand. No one else would even have caught it, but then no one else knew Draco the way she did. She had caught it, and it broke her heart.

Her attention now returning to the corridor in which they stood, she looked about for a moment in dull, weary horror, then said, in a barely audible voice, "I have to get out of here." Still, however, she didn't move- she remained, even now, paralyzed by the horror of this place. Until-

"Let's go then," Draco said, more gently than she thought she had ever heard him speak, and seizing her by the hand, led her unresisting around the corner and up the nearby stairs.

When they had reached the top of the steps, she felt a sudden rush of dizziness- giddy relief at being away from that evil place- that caused her to stop walking, pull her hand away from Draco's and lean heavily against the wall for a minute. Her legs felt weak; they wanted to buckle, to slide her right down the wall to the floor and allow her to sit for a moment, regaining her equilibrium, but she kept herself upright by force of will. Sliding down the wall would only cause Draco more worry, and he was worried enough already.

God, she hated how worried he was on her behalf, when he had more than enough troubles of his own. He had even said it himself- in a moment of panicked anger, yes, but that didn't make it any less true. _As if I don't already have enough on my plate,_ he had shouted.

And now he was speaking again, in a heartachingly tender voice; "hey- bookworm. You okay? Hermione?"

She felt her breath hitch, remembering what she had been about to say to Snape before Draco had arrived back on the scene, and suddenly she found herself saying all the things she had nearly said to the potions master to Draco himself, the words tumbling out of her mouth in a jumble, aware that she was stammering in her upset and her haste to speak before she lost her nerve; because as difficult as it was to say these things to him, she knew she owed it to him- owed him the opportunity to sever ties if he felt, as she did, that she was far more trouble than she was worth; owed him that choice.

"Draco, listen, um…I know you've got a lot on your mind these days and, um, I've been having a really hard time keeping myself together lately, so…so I guess what I'm trying to say is- is that- I'll understand if- um- if you don't want to be burdened with me anymore. I mean…I've been n-nothing but trouble for you lately, and you can g-go with my blessing if-if that's what you want."

"Jesus, Hermione! What in God's name would make you think that would ever- EVER be what I want? Tell me. Tell me what I've said or done to make you think that! Because whatever it was, it was unintentional. Whatever it was, I take it back!"

"No! It's nothing you've done. It's just that- you could have anyone you want. And I just- in a school full of pretty girls…_undamaged_ girls- I just don't understand why you would want me."

"Undamaged," Draco echoed quietly, sounding aghast. "Undamaged."

She stared at the floor, arms wrapped tightly about herself, blinking hard against the tears that wanted so badly to come, not wanting- not able- to look up until she felt his hand, ever so gently, yet insistently, slip under her chin and tilt her face up toward his.

"Hermione," he said, so softly she could barely hear him, his pale eyes boring into hers, "you listen to me. You are not damaged. You are perfect, and you are the only one I want. The only one I'll ever want. Wild thestrals couldn't drag me away from you. Are you hearing me?"

She gave a tiny nod, constrained by his hand, still under her chin, compelling her to keep eye contact.

"Now I'm begging you- and you know damn well I don't beg- but _please_, tell me what would even make you think such a thing? Have you ever seen me look at another girl? Because frankly, they don't even register to me anymore. They all look the same." He made a face of extreme distaste. "And the noise! Bunch of primped up, giggling, shrieking-"

She smiled despite herself, but it vanished almost as quickly as it had come.

"I just- um-" she pulled away and looked down again, swallowing hard- "overheard…someone…talking in the library and she was saying that- that you'd be getting tired of me soon because I don't- because we haven't-"

"Pansy." His voice was flat, uninflected, and that flatness was dangerous. Her eyes snapped back up to his face, suddenly frightened. When his voice went quiet like that, it meant he was mad enough to kill.

"Draco-"

"I'm sure you heard just _exactly_ what she intended you to overhear. What did she say precisely?"

Hermione felt tears prick the backs of her eyes again at the memory of it, but she fought against them and won- for the time being, anyway. Eyes still downcast, partly because she didn't want him to see the threatening tears, partly because she didn't feel she could look directly at him when repeating Pansy's scathing words, she whispered, "after a year, being with that frigid bitch Granger must be driving him up the wall…that's what she said."

For a moment there was total silence. Then Draco exploded.

"That BITCH! That vicious, conniving little c-"

"DRACO!"

He broke off, his attention arrested by Hermione's cry and the appalled look on her face. Then his eyes, which had gone dark- the color of gunmetal- and slitted with rage, softened and he reached for her, pulling her into a fierce embrace.

"Don't you believe it," he said, speaking into her hair; "don't you believe a word of it, do you hear me? Promise me. You have to promise me that you will never believe what that- that- what _SHE_ says, over what I say. Do you promise?"

She nodded against his chest.

"All right." Draco took a deep breath, seeming to struggle for composure. "All right." He squeezed her once, hard, crushing her against him for a fraction of a second, then pushed her back to arm's length, still gripping her tightly by the shoulders. "Hermione. I wasn't a whole person until I started to fall- until-" he broke off awkwardly, shook his head in frustration, and started again; "I can't imagine being without you. I don't want to. If I ever do get sick of you-" he smiled wryly- "you'll be the first to know, I swear. But believe me when I say, Granger, that I don't foresee that happening for a very long time. Okay?"

"Okay," she whispered.

"Good. Now let's get you back to the Tower. Snape said you should relax for the rest of the day, and I intend to see that his orders are carried out, even at the expense of my own afternoon classes. A regular martyr, that's me!" And he gave her a grin which, though small, was so shot through with mischief that she could not help but return it.

"Poor baby," she said sarcastically as they began to walk side by side. "I'm sure you must be heartbroken at the thought of missing our-" she stopped suddenly, mid-stride. "Defense quiz!" she cried, eyes widening in alarm. "Oh, no- nuh nuh nuh no! I'm not missing that! I've studied too hard!"

Draco rolled his eyes- he should have seen this coming. "Tell you what," he said after a moment's thought, "first period's ending right about now. Soon as we get your things, we'll go find the Nymph- I don't think she teaches second period. If we ask her, I'm sure she'll let us both take the quiz now and then we'll have the rest of the day off. That's the best thing about being head boy and girl- the teachers never tell us no!"

Hermione shook her head disapprovingly. "Being head boy carries a lot of responsibility, Draco- trust you to make it about seeing what you can get away with! And if _Professor_-" she placed a heavy emphasis on the word- "Tonks ever found out that you call her the Nymph, I think she'd make your whole ferret experience look like a Sunday walk in the park!"

"Hey," Draco said, indignant, "I thought we had agreed never to speak of that again! It's something I'd just as soon forget!" But he was smiling, seeming relieved that his attempt to lighten the mood appeared to be working. "And anyway- you haven't yet said that it's a bad idea."

"No," she agreed, beginning to walk once more. "No, I don't suppose it's such a bad idea at all. It's your utter lack of respect for the professors that I take issue with, not your idea, which is actually pretty clever- for a former Slytherin."

Draco looked deeply wounded. "I'll have you know," he said, "that Slytherins can be very clever. How is one supposed to be cunning, sly and devious without first being clever, hm?"

Hermione's brows knit together in thought. "I suppose you're right," she said slowly, "and after all," she teased, "who would know better than you, seeing as you possess all those qualities in such abundance?"

"My, aren't you a suddenly a snippy little thing?"

"Well, you deserve it," she said in clipped tones, "after your behavior in the entrance hall this morning."

Up a flight of stairs and around a bend in the corridor, Draco spoke again, his voice now serious once more. "I was really worried when you didn't show up for Arithmancy, Hermione- especially after the way I acted before class. I uh- I know I was being a real- um…" he trailed off, brow furrowed.

"Prat?" Hermione supplied gently.

He shot her a quick, keen look from the corners of his pale eyes before facing front again. "Yeah," he said quietly, having the grace to sound suitably chagrined. "And I- I just want you to know that I feel- that I'm really- um- really…"

"Sorry?"

"That's the one," he mumbled, looking everywhere but at her.

"It's all right, Malfoy," she said; "I've always known you were a prat- I love you anyway." And waited, feeling as though her heart had suddenly leapt into her mouth, to see if he might- just might- actually respond in kind.

But all he said, hooking an arm around her and pulling her tightly against his side, was- "Course you do, Granger- you have excellent taste in prats."


	4. Chapter 4: The Healing Begins

The following morning at breakfast there was an uproar when one Pansy Parkinson, of Slytherin House, took a huge swig from a goblet she had assumed held pumpkin juice- after all, what else would a goblet at the breakfast table be expected to hold?- and found it to contain, instead, undiluted bubotuber pus. In the ensuing madness, Hermione, studying Draco shrewdly through narrowed eyes, thought she had never seen him look quite so innocent. Their eyes met, his wide and guileless, and he mouthed to her over the din, _"poor girl."_

Hermione just shook her head.

Pansy spent the next three days in the hospital wing, during which time an extensive inquiry was of course launched, but the identity of the mean-spirited prankster was never discovered. Had it been, the guilty party would almost certainly have faced expulsion. Pansy herself was quite vocal (once she could do more than gurgle, that is) about her conviction that it was Hermione Granger, the Head Girl herself, who was responsible, but she refused to explain to the headmaster just why she thought so, and so, between the fact that there was no evidence whatsoever to support Pansy's claims and the fact that the faculty all agreed Hermione was about as capable of attempting to poison a fellow student as the Giant Squid was of moving into Gryffindor Tower, nothing ever came of it.

At nearly the same time as an extremely sullen Pansy was finally being released from Madam Pomfrey's care, Snape kept Hermione after potions in order to inform her that the corridor in which she had been attacked no longer existed. He and Dumbledore had seen to that. Any student now venturing that far down into the bowels of the school would, upon descending the final staircase, be met with a solid stone wall upon which had been placed the portrait of a very old, foul tempered wizard named Reginald the Recluse, who quite liked it by himself down there and would swear like a sailor at anyone who came near (what Snape neglected to tell her was that Reginald was, in fact, his own great-grandfather). Due to the fact that old Reggie's mouth was capable of sending the younger students into fits of hysterics- and not the good kind, either- "his staircase" would henceforth be on Dumbledore's list of prohibited places within the school.

Hermione was grateful, and even forced a smile to show it, which required a supreme effort because for her, smiles were hard to come by these days. Since the disastrous episode that had begun in the library and ended at the scene of her rape, Hermione had felt herself slipping deeper and deeper into depression. After all, though she had related some of what she had overheard that day to Draco, she had not told him the worst of it; the one comment, above all the others, that had truly devastated her and caused her flight- Pansy's sneering voice saying, "Granger, the perpetual virgin!"

It was this comment that ate away at her- this comment, which Pansy had intended as a scathing insult, but which had ended up causing Hermione far more anguish due to its inaccuracy than it ever would have had it been true. If it had been true, Hermione would have dismissed it for the spiteful, petty sniping that it was, but it was the fact that it was false- so woefully false-

So upsetting had been this comment, followed immediately by her unintentional visit to the very place where her virginity had been shattered, that she found herself dwelling on it nearly constantly and growing more and more distressed as the days passed.

00000

Thus it was that on the second Friday after the Pansy incident, she woke in such a black mood that she made the decision- for the first time ever since her arrival at Hogwarts seven years ago- to forego class when she wasn't seriously physically ill.

When Draco knocked on her door to collect her for breakfast, as was their custom, she raised her head from the pillow, in which it had been buried, long enough to call out to him that she wasn't feeling well and he should go to breakfast, and on to class, without her. When he asked to be allowed in, she refused.

She still hadn't gotten out of bed when Harry and Ron came around pounding on the door at lunchtime. She didn't bother answering them at all. No one else came by, and Draco did not return until after dark. By then, at least, she had gotten out of bed and showered, but had put her pajamas (pale blue jersey knit pants and a baggy white tee-shirt) back on and was doing nothing more than sitting in her window seat, staring out across the grounds. She had a book spread open across her lap, but had not read a single sentence since summoning it from her nightstand an hour before.

Dinner was over and she had been watching the Gryffindor Quidditch team, which of course included Harry, Ron and Draco, practicing as the Sun went down. They were now following the path back up to the castle, single file, broomsticks slung over their shoulders. As they disappeared through the double doors far below, she knew it was only a matter of moments until she would be once more under siege by at least one of "her boys", if not all three. Sighing, she turned her face away from the window, but made no move to get up. She lacked the energy, she lacked the will- at that particular moment, she lacked any conviction at all that it would be worthwhile to get up ever again.

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Draco trudged slowly up the many stairs that led to Gryffindor Tower, exhausted from practice and desperately worried about Hermione. That morning, when she had told him to go on to class without her, he had thought she meant that she would be missing the _first_ class of the day- and that had caused him enough concern. But that she should miss them ALL- that she should go an entire day without once leaving her room, for class, for meals, or even to visit the library- that was just SO unlike her. Or was it? Come to think of it, was it really? Or was it just the natural progression of the depression that seemed to be claiming her more and more fully of late? And if so, where would she go from here? How much worse could things get?

He shook his head. No worse. He couldn't allow this to go on. He had to think of a way to make this better. She was suffering and he had to come up with a way to help her. He HAD to. But how? Dear God, HOW?

In the common room, he parted from the rest of the team; they headed up yet more stairs to their dormitories while he turned toward the door beside the fireplace. Harry grasped his shoulder briefly in a comradely fashion and the two boys shared a significant look. Draco knew that Harry- Ron too, for that matter- was as worried about Hermione as he was. Well, almost as worried- they didn't know about the Pansy incident, so they had one less thing to fret about than he did. But nevertheless, they could certainly tell that Hermione's state was deteriorating, even if they weren't aware of every single contributing factor. They had told him about her refusal to answer them at lunch time, concern etched all over their faces; she had only previously given the two of them the cold shoulder a handful of times over all the years they had been at Hogwarts, and only when the trio had been fighting over one thing or another.

Yet it had been Harry who had convinced Draco not to forego dinner and practice, when his inclination had been to nip some food straight from the kitchens and bring it upstairs to eat with Hermione. Harry had convinced him (not without some difficulty) that Hermione needed time, and would probably be more herself if he gave her until after practice. So, though it had been hard for him, he had waited. He was going to see her now though, come hell or high water. Oh yes indeed.

He stopped by his own room first, wearily dropping his broomstick on the bed and stripping off his protective gear. This was something that the rest of his teammates did down in the changing rooms, but not Draco- oh, no. Old habits died hard, and Draco Malfoy was not about to leave his expensive, top-of-the-line Quidditch equipment in a filthy locker down in the communal changing room, where just any riff-raff could lay grubby hands on it. And imagine the horror if it were taken, or accidentally mixed up with someone else's- not that that was likely- the accidental mix-up scenario, anyway- since his things were of such obvious superiority in quality and cleanliness- but one could never be sure, and it would be a cold day in Hell before he pulled on someone else's sweaty, grimy, stained equipment. Or worse yet- he actually shuddered- the extra "emergency gear" that belonged to the school. If it came down to that, he wouldn't play. He would see a game forfeited first, which he knew would sit very ill with his teammates- therefore, his gear remained in his room at all times he wasn't actually wearing it. And if his teammates sniggered behind his back at his insistence on wearing the hot leather equipment all the way back up to the tower after every practice and game, so be it (damn them all).

Ordinarily, he cleaned and oiled the leather gear immediately upon his return from any practice or game, but just for tonight he decided it could wait. Pulling his scarlet and gold Gryffindor Quidditch robe over his head, he used it to briefly towel off his sweat-soaked hair, then tossed it carelessly in a corner and, still wearing the remainder of his uniform- tightly fitted flying breeches tucked into dragonhide boots and his scarlet team jersey- headed across the hall to Hermione's room.

His knock at her door did not achieve the result he had intended- immediate entrance into her room- or, indeed, in any result whatsoever. It appeared that she had decided to extend her earlier silent treatment of Harry and Ron to him as well.

Only he wasn't going to have it.

"Hermione?" he called, his voice soft but carrying. No response.

He tried the handle. It was locked.

He sighed.

"Hermione," he called again, in the same voice, which managed to carry without actually being raised, his tone calm and matter-of-fact; "believe me when I say that I am coming in, one way or another. Now," he asked, almost conversationally, "are you going to open this door, or am I going to blast it out of my way?"

There was a long silence. Then, he heard a softly spoken spell from the far side of the door- the far side of the room too, by the sound of it- followed by a click from within the doorknob. When he tried it again, it opened.

00000

He first noticed that the usually neatly-kept room was in a very un-Hermione-like state of disarray. Two or three different homework assignments lay strewn haphazardly across her desk, all appearing to be only half done. The bed was unmade, sheets and blankets scattered all about, and clothes littered the floor and lay draped carelessly over the backs of chairs, presumably where she had left them after undressing the night before. He didn't think they were from today, at any rate, because when he noticed her- sitting curled in a ball in her window seat, a large book lying open beside her like a faithful but neglected pet, her face turned away from him, staring out the window at a night so dark she couldn't possibly actually be seeing anything- he realized that she was wearing pajamas which, by the rumpled look of them, had been slept in last night and then worn all day as well.

"Hermione?"

"I don't want to talk," she said in a dull, flat voice. "The locked door should have clued you in to that, but then you never were one to take a hint, were you?"

He walked slowly over and settled himself on the window seat as well- it was more than long enough to accommodate two people. She didn't look at him, choosing instead to continue her examination of the pitch darkness outside her window.

There was a long silence.

"Bookworm," he said at last, "this can't go on. I need you to tell me what it is that's torturing you like this. Not just some of it- ALL of it. Because you didn't tell me all of it before, did you?"

Finally, she turned eyes to him that were, as they had been in the hallway when she had nearly knocked him over in her haste to escape the library, haunted. There were no tears in them- not at the moment- but tear-tracks streaked her pale face. She swallowed, then dropped her gaze away from his. She whispered something so softly he couldn't make it out.

He leaned forward. "What?"

She dropped her head onto her knees and her next words were badly muffled, but by edging closer and listening intently, he managed to make them out.

"Pansy said something else."

Draco felt that now familiar protective rage flare within him, but he fought it down. He could tell that ranting and raving about the Parkinson bitch (_bloody fucking whore!_) the way he wanted to do would cause Hermione to shut down completely. If he wanted her to open up to him, he had to remain calm.

Unconsciously, he raised his right hand to his face and began massaging his temple with his fingertips. When he spoke, his voice was quiet; composed. "Tell me."

She made a sound that seemed as if she were swallowing back a sob, but when she raised her head from her knees, her eyes were still dry. Dark-ringed and despairing, but dry. She hesitated, and he could see the uncertainty behind those brown eyes. She was debating whether to tell him. Her hesitation pained him, but it lasted only a second, to be replaced by resignation.

"Granger, the perpetual virgin," she said in a monotone, then gave a short, bitter laugh. "I suppose it goes hand-in-hand with being a frigid bitch- as far as Pansy's concerned, at least. She said it to hurt me, and it did- but not in the way she had intended. I could have stood it if it were true- I wish to God it were true. It hurt me because it's so blatantly false." Her eyes remained steadily on his as she said, "because I don't care what you say to spare my feelings, I AM damaged and I know it. All I am is used goods."

Draco closed his eyes, fighting for control. What he wanted to do in that instant was take her by the shoulders and SHAKE her- shake her and _SLAP_ some sense into her, if necessary. This was not a stupid girl sitting in front of him- she was the smartest girl at Hogwarts; the smartest girl he'd ever met, for Chrissakes. And he had met many highly intelligent people in his parents' circle (evil as the day was long, yes- but intelligent). Hermione outshone them all. So why in God's name was she allowing herself to buy into such complete and utter bullshit?

And the most frustrating part was that he knew that her very intelligence and innate sense of logic- which should have, but had somehow failed to, protect her from falling into this trap of self-loathing- would be his biggest hurdle to helping her claw her way back out of it again. Shaking her, yelling at her, even taking her into his arms and rocking her, telling her that he would give his life to go back and change the outcome of that day- all of which were things he wanted to do at the moment- would not work.

Assuring her that he, Draco Malfoy, was not bloody likely to waste his time on used or damaged goods and therefore she must clearly be nothing of the sort- in his opinion anyway, which was, after all, the only one that truly mattered- would not work.

He needed to prove her wrong with calm, rational logic.

But how?

What logic could he use in the face of such an emotionally charged situation? How on Earth could he make her see that what she was saying simply was not true?

All at once it came to him, in a blinding flash of inspiration. "Come on," he said urgently; "I have something to show you. Bring your book." And seizing her hand, he pulled her bodily out of her room, in her pajamas and slippers, through the crowded common room, which buzzed with conversation as weekend plans were cheerfully being made, and out the portrait hole.

00000

"Draco, where are we going?" Hermione asked anxiously, as he pulled her by the hand across the dark grounds toward the forbidden forest. "Will you please just tell me what is going ON? I don't-"

"Shh," Draco whispered. They had passed Hagrid's hut and were now skirting the forest, heading toward the enclosure that had at one time held four dragons during the Triwizard Tournament years ago. Though the stands had long since been removed, the enclosure remained, and was now used to house an ever-changing assortment of animals for the Care of Magical Creatures classes to study.

It was nearly empty now, for such a large space; only a handful of animals could be seen within as they approached, widely spread out, brilliantly white and shining in the dusk. A faint whinny reached their ears; a beautiful, almost musical sound.

"Unicorns," Hermione breathed. Having missed Care of Magical Creatures that day, she had not known they were there. One look at her face told Draco that she was utterly enthralled by them, as he had hoped she would be. As most girls were.

"C'mon," he said quietly, and led her toward the enclosure's gate.

"Wait," she whispered, when they had reached the gate and Draco was reaching for the latch; "I think I hear something. A voice. A person."

"Draco cocked his head, listening hard, and heard it too. A girl's voice, coming from off to their right, where the enclosure had been expanded to surround a small stand of trees, which provided shelter to the animals on hot days.

He jutted his head toward the sound of the voice, as much as to say, _shall we investigate?_

"I don't know," Hermione murmured. "Maybe we shouldn't intrude…"

"Let's just have a look," Draco said. "We've come all the way down here; it would be a shame to leave without seeing the unicorns. Maybe whoever it is will welcome some company."

They started off around the edge of the enclosure, toward the stand of trees, walking very quietly, as if both sensing, despite Draco's words, that the owner of the voice would not welcome their arrival at all. They were almost to the trees when Hermione stopped abruptly, peering through the slatted fence.

"Draco, look," she whispered; "I can see her. It's…it's Pansy."

Draco looked, and saw her too. Sitting cross-legged on the ground at the base of a nearby tree, with a book spread open on her lap, was Pansy Parkinson, Slytherin princess, queen of vicious words that cut like knives. Though apparently quite alone, she was reading aloud by wandlight, in a quiet, faltering sort of voice. Closer observation revealed the reason her voice was faltering; she was crying openly, tears streaming down her face as she continued to read. Several feet away, apparently listening intently, were two unicorns; a snow-white mare and a silvery half-grown foal, shimmering in the night, for it was now fully dark.

They occasionally tossed their heads and whinnied, but did not approach Pansy.

Draco and Hermione watched, silently, transfixed, for the next ten minutes as Pansy continued to read, her words becoming more difficult to understand as she cried harder and harder. Finally, with a great sob, she ceased reading altogether. The instant she stopped, the two unicorns pawed the ground, snorted, and turned away.

"GO ON THEN! Get out of here!" Pansy shrieked suddenly (in a voice still decidedly scratchy from her bubotuber ordeal), making Hermione jump- and, leaping to her feet, she hurled the heavy book at the unicorns. It thudded to the ground between them, and they reared and galloped away toward the far side of the enclosure. She then dropped her face into her hands and stood, shoulders hunched, for a long moment, sobbing pitifully. Finally, she raised her head, wiped her face on her sleeve, went to retrieve her book, and, without a glance in Draco and Hermione's direction, made her way slowly toward the enclosure gate, still sniffling.

They watched in silence as she let herself out of the enclosure and headed back toward the castle. Only once she was completely out of sight did either of them breathe deeply again- they hadn't even realized that they'd been holding their breath.

"Poor Pansy!" Hermione exclaimed at last. "I mean, I never thought I'd feel sorry for HER, but- my God! She was so upset. What was that all about?"

Draco was staring after Pansy, looking uncharacteristically shaken. "Class," he murmured, more to himself than to Hermione; "she must not have understood. And I noticed that she didn't come back up to the castle with the rest of us- so she's been down here for hours, trying to-" he shook his head. "Oh Pansy, you stupid, stupid girl."

Hermione's full attention was now focused on him. "Draco," she said slowly, "would you care to enlighten me as to what happened in class this afternoon? Because I am seriously in the dark right now."

Draco turned his eyes on her. As always at night, they shone faintly silver. "We learned some new facts about unicorns today," he said, totally unnecessarily. Hermione gave an impatient snort. "I gathered THAT much," she retorted; "could you elaborate, please?"

"Well, Draco said, sounding suddenly rather hesitant, "we learned that if a maiden sits on the ground beneath a tree and either sings or reads aloud, unicorns will come and lay their heads in her lap and go to sleep. It's a method that was used quite commonly in the Middle Ages to capture them; while they were sleeping, men would creep up and bind them. Very few people know about it anymore, as there are so few unicorns left. Pansy must have thought it could work for any girl- she either missed the word 'maiden', or she didn't understand what was meant by it."

"It means virgin," Hermione whispered, looking suddenly stricken.

"Yes," Draco replied, "which Pansy most definitely is not."

"And neither am I," Hermione said, in a small, choked-sounding voice. She was looking from Draco to the book tucked under her arm- the book he had instructed her to bring- over to the distant unicorns, and back to Draco again. Abruptly, she dropped the book to the ground. "Draco- why did you bring me down here? Surely you don't- you can't mean for me to-"

Tears were welling in her eyes, and she took a step back from him, then another, shaking her head all the while.

"Hermione, listen-"

"No!" Her voice was shrill. "I can't believe you would do this to me! After what I just TOLD you up in my room! You WANT to see them reject me the way they rejected Pansy? Why? WHY would you want to see that?" She dissolved completely into tears.

"Hermione!" Draco took two quick strides forward and grasped her firmly by the upper arms. "You WILL listen to me," he said commandingly, his pale eyes boring intently into her dark ones. He took a deep breath, and when she offered no further resistance, continued; "Pansy missed a large part of the lecture altogether. She and a couple of other girls wandered off to get a better look at that foal, either not realizing, or more likely not caring, that Hagrid was still talking. She missed quite a few interesting facts. Such as the whole discussion about virgins and, in particular, 'true virgins', which is a fine distinction that unicorns, as highly intuitive magical creatures, are capable of making." He shook his head again. "If she had bothered to stick around for the last twenty minutes of the lecture, she would have realized that she, being no kind of virgin, was a lost cause for the whole reading-aloud deal, and she wouldn't have wasted hours of her time and frustrated herself to tears."

Hermione, now staring at the ground, whispered, "I don't understand. We learned a little about unicorns in fourth year, when Grubbly-Plank was filling in for Hagrid, but she never mentioned any of this. Virgin, true virgin, what does it mean?"

"She probably figured- correctly, in my opinion- that fourth-years weren't ready to hear about it yet. A true virgin," Draco said quietly, "is a girl who has never- WILLINGLY- given up her virginity to a man she loves- or at the very least, thinks she does. Therefore it is possible, in rare cases, for a girl not to be a technical virgin, but still to be a true virgin. You are one of those cases. See, Pansy, for all that she may regret it now, gave up her virginity willingly to a boy she thought she loved. (Never would he tell her that he had been that boy, on the night of the Yule Ball during fourth year, so long ago.) You, on the other hand, have never done so." He tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. "You are a true virgin, Hermione, and the unicorns will recognize that, and they WILL come to you. You'll see."

For the briefest second, he thought he saw a wild hope kindle in her eyes- but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. She was shaking her head again. "You're wrong," she whispered despairingly. "They'll never come to me. Never. Not after what he…" she trailed off, and a violent shudder wracked her body. "It was disgusting. I'M disgus-"

"HEY!" Draco, who was still holding her by the upper arms, was no longer able to resist the impulse; he gave her a sudden, hard shake. "Don't you say it, Hermione, do you hear me? Don't you even THINK it! Goddamn it," he swore, and she saw that he was really, truly angry; "that's complete and utter bullshit! And what's more, you're smart enough that you should KNOW that's complete and utter bullshit. For the love of God…" he trailed off for a moment, staring intently into her eyes, then, abruptly, yanked her to him, engulfing her in a tight, hard embrace. Resting his chin atop her head, he said, "I think deep down you know what I'm saying is true. You must. You're smart enough that you must. The things that bastard- that bloody fucking bastard- did to you- were just that; done TO you, wholly without your consent or participation. The unicorns will sense that, and they will disregard what he did. And they will come. They will come. I know they'll come; I swear it to you. And what's more, we are not. Going back. To the castle. Until you sit under that tree and bloody well READ! Do I make myself clear?"

It was a long moment before he felt her nod once, against his chest. Releasing her, he walked over to where her book lay on the ground, picked it up, and tossed it over the enclosure fence. He then beckoned her over to the fence; she came slowly, reluctantly. Without a word, he boosted her up and over, then easily climbed over himself.

Retrieving her book, he took her by the hand and led her over to the tree Pansy had been sitting against. He then did something that surprised her; he settled himself on the ground beneath the tree, leaned back against it, and patted the soft, springy turf between his legs.

Slowly, still with great reluctance, she lowered herself into a sitting position between his legs, facing outward, away from him. She then leaned back against his chest, allowing her head to fall onto his shoulder as one of his arms circled her waist and the other came up and began stroking through her hair. They sat that way for a long moment as her sense of unease slowly faded and she gradually relaxed into him. Then, reaching around in front of her, he placed the book gently in her lap, pulled his wand from the waistband of his breeches, and murmured, "Lumos."

Holding the wand aloft so that the faint light from its tip illuminated the book, he said simply, "read."

"They won't come," she whispered.

"They will," he said.

She opened the book, drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and began slowly, haltingly, to read aloud.

And they came. Not one of them, not two of them; they all came.

There were, as it turned out, five in total; two mares, two foals, and a stallion. The same mare and half-grown foal that had been listening to Pansy, albeit at a distance, were the first to come, followed by the other mare and her younger, still golden foal. The stallion came last, slowly, majestically, glimmering in the light of the rising moon.

The five animals ranged themselves in a semicircle around the young couple, then sank to their knees, all their eyes fixed unblinkingly on Hermione, as she made a concerted effort to continue reading, though her breath was catching in her throat at their beauty, their closeness, the fact they had come. They had come to her when she had _never_ thought they would. Apparently, they didn't see her as damaged or sullied or disgusting; they, the purest magical creatures in the world, seemed to consider her to be just as good and wholesome and beautiful as they were themselves.

And Draco must agree with them, or he wouldn't have brought her here.

She was nearly overwhelmed by emotion, but she kept on reading and very slowly, never taking his eyes off her, the stallion lowered his head into her lap. As though they had been waiting for his signal, the mares and foals followed suit, jostling for position, their heads bumping gently, eyes still riveted on her face. If all five had been adults, they never could have fit. Even so, it was a very close thing. She finally had to stop reading, as one of the mares laid her head squarely on top of the book.

"You'd better start singing," Draco whispered in her ear, "if you don't want them to leave."

She took a deep breath. There was, of course, only one song that she would choose to sing under such enchanting circumstances.

The large, luminous eyes of all five unicorns fell slowly shut. By the time Hermione had finished the song, they were sleeping soundly.

"I think you can stop once they're asleep," Draco murmured. Hermione let her head fall back against his shoulder once again and stared up, between the gently swaying branches of the tree above them, to the starlit sky beyond. Silent tears were pouring from her eyes, but these were not the tears of despair she had been crying for over a year; these were tears of wonderment and sheer joy.

They stayed like that, sitting perfectly still, for well over an hour, until the unicorns began to stir and then, led by the stallion, got to their feet, tossed their heads, and trotted away. Hermione, leaning heavily against Draco, stretched luxuriously, then sat straight up and half-turned so that she was looking directly at him for the first time since they had settled themselves in that spot. He was staring intently at her, trying to gauge her reaction to all that had happened.

"Draco," she whispered, and then she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms tightly around him and burying her face in his neck. "I love you," she cried; "thank you, thank you, I love you so much!"

She thought she felt him smile into her hair as his own arms came up to pull her even tighter into the embrace. "I knew they would come," was all he said.

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(A/N: so things are finally looking up for Hermione- about time too, poor thing. More fluff to come next chapter. Then the shit will start to hit the fan! As for the unicorn legend, that they will lay their heads in the lap of a maiden and go to sleep, it is true…well not exactly true per se, but it is a real legend (although the actual legend goes on to say that if a non-virgin, like Pansy, tries to "trick" a unicorn into coming to her, it will gore her to death with its horn- eep!)- I made up the part about "true virgins" though.)


	5. Chapter 5: Not Scared Anymore

(A/N: This chapter has sexual content. You have been warned!)

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Every night for a week, Draco and Hermione went down to the unicorn enclosure. Always they would sit under the same tree; Draco leaning against the trunk, Hermione leaning against Draco, and always when she read aloud or sang softly, the unicorns would come. On the third night, and each night thereafter, they actually found the animals standing clustered about the tree, as if eagerly awaiting their arrival.

Every night, in the pasture, Hermione cried tears of joy.

She no longer cried any other kind, or at any other time.

Harry and Ron were the first, other than Draco, to notice the change in her; but before the week was out, nearly all the students and faculty had. She held her head up high again; she made eye contact with everyone she passed in the halls; her hand could be seen once again in the air during class; hesitant at first, but quickly gaining in confidence, to the delight of all her teachers, even Snape- though he would never have deigned to admit it. She smiled more often and more widely, and by the end of the week she had even been heard to laugh on two or three different occasions. Gone was the silent, preoccupied, and rather skittish girl that had been Hermione Granger for so long. She was finally coming out of her shell.

It was all a result of her interaction with the unicorns, though absolutely no one besides Draco, and of course Hermione herself, knew this. The only people forward enough to actually ask about the change that had come over her were close friends; Ron, Harry, and Ginny all mentioned it to her, but she didn't reveal the secret of the unicorns to any of them. She considered it to be an intensely private matter, for her and Draco alone.

On the following Saturday evening, a week and a day after their first visit to unicorns, Draco noticed that she was behaving somewhat oddly as they headed down to the enclosure. They were later than usual, because there had been a Hogsmeade visit that day, and they had dallied in the quaint little town until the very last possible moment before curfew set in. (Draco, in particular, was feeling rather smug about a certain purchase he had made in secret while Hermione had been lingering over butterbeers in the Three Broomsticks with Harry and Ron.) Then, upon their arrival back, as head boy and girl, they had been faced with the extremely unpleasant task of going over the sign-in sheets with Filch to make sure that all of the towngoers were back in the castle, safe and accounted for.

So after such a full day, he thought at first that the change in her demeanor could be explained by simple physical weariness. By the time they had reached the enclosure, though, he was definitely sensing that it was something more. She seemed- not sad, exactly, but… solemn. Yes, that was it- there was an air of gravity about her that had not been present on any of their previous visits.

When they reached their designated tree, Draco prepared to sit down as usual, but Hermione stopped him with a word. She went down on one knee and rummaged briefly through the Hosmeade shopping bag she had been carrying. When she stood again a moment later, she was holding her major purchase of the day; a brand-new wizarding camera. She walked over to Draco and thrust the camera into his hands.

"You can't sit down with me yet," she said, and smiled somewhat nervously. "I want you to take a couple of pictures first. You know- of me with all the unicorns. I want-" her voice and expression were suddenly wistful; bittersweet- "I want something to remember this by."

Draco was thoroughly puzzled. "Hermione, you're acting like this is the last night we'll ever come down here. The unicorns will be here for the rest of the term- you know that."

"Yes, I know that," she replied, "and we'll still come down here sometimes, but this IS the last night they'll ever sleep in my lap, and so I want to remember it." She fell silent, watching his face intently, waiting for her words to sink in. Then-

"Wait a minute," Draco said slowly, his pale eyes widening.

Knowing that he had caught her meaning, she reached up and pulled him down into a deep, slow kiss.

"Hermione," he sputtered, when she released him, "you- you-"

She smiled up at him. She couldn't remember ever seeing him flustered before. It was completely out of character. It was also, she thought, utterly endearing. "What's the matter, Malfoy?" she teased. "Cat got your tongue?"

Draco shook his head. "I- you-" he trailed off, looking shell-shocked. Then, running a hand distractedly through his silvery hair; "are you sure? I mean, absolutely sure?"

"As sure as I've ever been about anything," she whispered. "I don't want to be afraid of it anymore. I love you and I trust you and I want you to show me that it can be good." Then her brow furrowed and she looked suddenly anxious. "It- it CAN be good…right?"

"Well- yeah," Draco said, still sounding stunned. "Hell _YEAH_, it can be good."

"Then I want you to teach me. I'm ready to learn."

Draco surprised her then by suddenly bursting into laughter. "Trust you to make this about learning," he said. "What is this, your new research project?"

"It IS about learning," she replied, in a tone of exaggerated hurt, though a tiny smile was playing about her lips. "And if you'd rather I find someone else to help me with my research-"

"Don't even THINK it," he growled, and pulled her hard against him, into another kiss, this one far more breathless and urgent than the last.

They parted a moment later, gasping for air, and Hermione stepped back quickly, looking startled. Her eyes flew down to a point low on Draco's lean body, where something large and hard had pressed urgently into her stomach during the kiss.

"Draco Malfoy!" she exclaimed, sounding thoroughly scandalized, though her eyes were positively dancing with mirth, "control yourself, sir! I still have a date with the unicorns before- before I will require your assistance with my research!"

"Sorry," said Draco, looking away. He had the grace to appear embarrassed, but a grin was tugging at the corners of his mouth. He suddenly became very interested in fiddling with Hermione's new camera. "Let's get on with those unicorns then, shall we? I suddenly find myself growing rather-" he shot her a quick, rakish look from the corners of his pale eyes- a brief flash of silver in the dark- "impatient."

Hermione gave a most unladylike snort ("don't ruin the mood!" Draco complained) and promptly settled herself beneath the tree.

The unicorns, seeming to sense that there was something different- special- about this night, were quite patient with the little photography session that ensued; they were not at all skittish about the camera's flash, as Hermione had feared they might be.

After he finished playing photographer, Draco, not wanting to disturb the unicorns from Hermione's lap, made no attempt to slide into his usual position behind her. Rather, he sat against the side of the tree at a right angle from Hermione and, leaning his head back against the cool, smooth trunk, reached around and captured her hand in his.

They sat that way for a long time, first as Hermione sang the unicorns to sleep, and then in silence, both their heads tilted back against the tree trunk, gazing up at the crystalline stars. Though she sat utterly still so as not to disturb the slumbering animals, Hermione's thoughts were in a whirl. She was about to finally, after having been together for over a year, give herself up to the man she loved. And oh, she _did _love him. She did trust him. He said it could be good; she believed him. She was ready. She was elated. She was also, despite her earlier calm words, absolutely terrified. How could she not be, her one previous sexual experience being what it was? By the time the unicorns roused themselves and cantered away, her heart was pounding so loudly in her ears that she half-wondered if that was what had awakened them.

When Draco gave her a hand up, her legs felt like jelly. She clung to him as they made their way in silence back toward the enclosure gate, leaning against his side, his arm wrapped snugly, possessively, around her waist. With each step, she felt her panic rise. She attempted to calm herself through the use of logic; it had rarely failed her before. Draco loved her. He might not say it in so many words, but nevertheless, she knew deep-down that it was true. Therefore, he would never hurt her. And she was sick to death of living in fear of what should be an act of love. She had said she was sure she wanted this, and she was- but oh God- she couldn't help it- she was so scared.

Her thoughts were diverted from this track, however, as they came in sight of the gate. Beside her, Draco drew in a breath which indicated that he was as surprised as she by the sight that met their eyes- for there, standing directly in front of the gate, barring their way out of the enclosure, was the stallion, majestic in the moonlight.

They approached him slowly, wondering if he would step aside as they drew nearer, but he did not. He hardly moved at all; he looked like a statue standing there; a perfect sculpture of a unicorn in shimmering white marble. They stopped, uncertain, about ten feet away, glancing quickly at each other in perplexity before returning their attention to the magnificent animal before them, wondering what on Earth was going on. None of the unicorns had ever positioned themselves by the gate before.

Just as Hermione was readying herself to speak- to Draco or to the unicorn, she didn't fully know- the stallion tossed his head, and walked straight up to her, taking slow, high, prancing steps. Reaching her, he immediately bowed his magnificent head and laid it upon her shoulder, then whickered softly into her ear, causing her eyes, wide and startled, to fly once again to Draco's.

The unicorn held that pose, his head resting on Hermione's shoulder, his warm breath gently stirring her hair, for a full minute before he pulled away and danced back a few steps, turning his attention to Draco. He captured Draco's eyes in a long, steady gaze, then, very slowly, with great dignity and solemnity, he lowered his head and touched his horn first to Draco's right shoulder, then his left, and finally his right again, exactly like a king performing a knighting ceremony. This done, he backed away a few more steps, looked lingeringly once more from Draco to Hermione, then abruptly reared back on his hind legs, whinnied, and cantered away, leaving them staring after him, dumbfounded.

"Bugger," Draco said, with feeling.

"He knows," Hermione breathed; "Draco, he knows what we're about to do."

"More than that," Draco said; "he approves. I reckon he was giving us his blessing." After a long, thoughtful moment, he added, "holy shit."

"Draco Malfoy, I ought to wash your mouth out with soap!"

As they let themselves out of the gate and headed back across the grounds toward the castle, Hermione found that her fear had vanished, pushed out of her mind by the wonderment of their encounter with the unicorn. All that remained was a nervous, tingling sort of anticipation, and a feeling that she was floating, rather than walking, back toward the school, toward Gryffindor Tower, toward her room and her bed- with Draco. After all, if the stallion had intuited what they were about to do and had approved, had offered them his blessing, then it must be good; it must be right. She smiled and, without breaking stride, snuggled closer against her boyfriend- her soon-to-be-lover.

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Draco carried her over the threshold of her bedroom, and deposited her on the bed as though she were made of crystal; as though she were the most precious thing on the face of the Earth.

He dipped his head, his soft, silver hair falling about her face, and claimed her lips in a fierce kiss; it was not in his nature to kiss slowly or gently, even though his hands were the very epitome of tenderness as they roamed her body, caressing her through her clothes, awakening a need that she had never known before; never dreamed existed within her.

Finally tearing his mouth from hers, leaving her gasping for breath, he began unbuttoning her blouse slowly, slowly, planting a kiss on each new inch of flesh he exposed, until she was bare from the waist up, but for her plain white bra. Reaching a hand beneath her, he fumbled for a moment with the clasp, but to no avail (he was woefully out of practice with the bloody things).

"Damn it," he swore in frustration, causing her to giggle, and, grabbing his wand off the nightstand, vanished the offending bra with a flick of his wrist. Her laughter trailed off as she suddenly blushed deeply and looked away, bashful. She felt incredibly vulnerable all of a sudden; no one had ever seen her like this before.

"Hey." He caught her face in both his hands and turned it gently, yet inexorably, back up toward him. "Don't be shy, Hermione. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. You're _perfect-_ a goddess." He bent and kissed her again, then, "You know I mean it, right? I always mean what I say."

She nodded; it was true. By and large, Draco was a man of few words, and when he spoke, he spoke with conviction. He wouldn't have told her she was beautiful if he didn't truly believe it to be so.

Then all conscious thought was driven from her mind, her back arching clear off the bed as his hand found one of her breasts; his mouth the other.

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It was a long time before Draco was positioned over her, ready to finally consummate their love in the most intimate way. Hours of foreplay and exploration had passed- it was nearly dawn- and he still wasn't sure she was ready for this- he just couldn't stand it if he hurt her.

"Are you SURE?" he asked, for what had to be the hundredth time that night.

"_Yes!"_ she cried, nearly sobbing with desire. "I want- I need- I don't KNOW what I need, but I know you can give it to me- Draco, please! I'm ready."

He lowered his head so that their noses were nearly touching. "You say the word and I'll stop. You know that, right?" She nodded. "Okay then- if you're sure- tell me something. When you're about to go swimming on a hot day, and you know the water will be cold- so cold it may be a shock at first, but will feel nice once you get used to it- do you ease in slowly, or do you jump?"

She stared up at him for a moment, puzzlement written all over her face, clearly not comprehending the implications of his question. That was all right. He didn't need her to understand per se; he only needed her answer, to tell him how to proceed.

"I- I'm a Gryffindor," she whispered, with a sudden, almost defiant tilt to her chin. "I jump."

That was all he needed to know. A smile touched his lips for just a fraction of a second; then he kissed her deeply and, at the same time, plunged into her, filling her completely with one swift thrust.

Her body jerked beneath his and she gave a startled cry; a cry that traveled directly from her mouth into his and was lost. And Draco found himself suddenly and inextricably caught between pleasure such as he had never known (none of the other girls he had dallied with over the years had felt like this- she must _truly_ be a goddess, he thought fleetingly; no ordinary woman could feel this good) and a stabbing, blinding pang of guilt, for he must be hurting her, he must be- her entire body was stiff and trembling, back arched, hands clenched into fists and pushing against his shoulders.

Ah God, it felt so good; he didn't want to stop.

But he had to. He had to.

He broke the kiss and looked down at her. Her head was thrown back, her face scrunched up; eyes shut, jaw tight and breath coming in shallow bursts through clenched teeth.

"Hey," he whispered, hearing his voice break, his heart right along with it, at the thought that he had caused her pain, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, love, I'm so sorry I hurt you. I'm gonna pull out now, okay? It'll be over in a second- just hang on…hang on." And slowly, so as not to cause her more pain, he started to withdraw.

And then she did something that absolutely floored him; flinging her arms about him, she held on tight and, still through clenched teeth, cried out, "No! Don't- Draco, don't go."

He stopped instantly and stared down at her in amazement. "Hermione- I'm hurting you."

She opened her eyes and he could see tears standing in them, but she shook her head. "No. Just give- give me a minute." She let her eyes fall shut again, her warm, sweet breath bursting against his face in shallow, rapid pants, and then gave a tiny thrust upwards with her hips; a tentative, exploratory movement. Draco, who had managed to withdraw about halfway, found himself suddenly buried fully within her again.

They both gasped. Then a groan was wrenched from Draco, who was now in the throes of pleasure so intense it was very nearly pain. "Hermione," he ground out, his face just as strained as hers, "you are making it very difficult for me to stop."

"Don't…want you to stop. Just- just in shock. Like you said. I un-understand now. I just…have to get used to it. You s-said…it'll feel nice…once I'm used to it. Right?"

"Yes," Draco said in a tight voice, as he fought to maintain his self control, because at this point he was very close to being unable to stop even if she should beg him to. "Yes, but- God, Hermione, I can't stand hurting you like this!"

"Doesn't hurt…too bad," she whispered, but, belying her words, the tears in her eyes spilled over, trickling down her face.

It was as if each tear were a bucket of ice water that had been thrown over him. "That's it," he said decidedly, and tensed to withdraw again, but before he could, she had wrapped both her legs around him too.

"Oh God," he cried, "SHIT, Hermione!"

"It's okay," she said, her eyes locking onto his. "I just…feel…really, really full, that's all." She wriggled deliciously beneath him, causing him to groan yet again, and he saw the faintest hint of a smile touch her lips; probably, he thought, as it began to dawn on her just how much power she had over him in this situation. He hadn't cried out when Potter had stabbed him; hadn't made a sound under Voldemort's Cruciatus Curse; but she could reduce him to moaning like bloody Myrtle with the smallest motion in bed.

_It's all over,_ he thought, as he smiled back ruefully. _She bloody well owns me now. (As if she didn't before,_ whispered a corner of his mind.)

"It feels like we're one person," she breathed, and he saw that the pain in her eyes was slowly diminishing, to be replaced by an almost childlike wonderment.

_Even now, she's so innocent,_ he thought- _so wholesome, so pure- so damn far out of my league! I don't deserve to even be here; I don't deserve to the one who's joined to this amazing creature- but I'll take it; by God, I'll take it and be grateful._

"We _are _one person," he replied; "for right now, we are." And he bent his head and kissed her again, staying perfectly still, letting her adjust.

A long moment later, she broke the kiss and grinned up at him roguishly. "It doesn't hurt anymore," she whispered, gyrating her hips gently, causing his breath to catch in his throat; "now you can show me the pleasant part."

And he did.

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They slept far into the morning and awoke naked under the scarlet sheets, still tangled in one another's embrace. It was Draco who woke first and, gathering Hermione even closer to him, kissed her lightly on the forehead, then the tip of her nose.

Her dark eyes blinked open slowly, and she smiled sleepily, then nuzzled her head into the hollow at the base of his throat.

"Hey, bookworm," he said, his voice husky with sleep, "how you feeling?" His brow suddenly creased with concern and he added, "was it really all right? I didn't hurt you too bad?"

She shook her head against his chest, then, pulling back a little so as to look him in the eye, said, "it was amazing. I can't believe I was so scared of something so wonderful." Reaching up, she traced his sharp facial features with her hand, then ran it through his silky hair. "Thank you for showing me," she whispered, then- "I love you."

Instead of answering, he caught her face in his hands and kissed her deeply, holding her against him as though he never intended to let her go. It was only an urgent need to breathe that compelled him to finally break the kiss. Grinning down at her, he murmured, "you know you're mine forever now, don't you? My brown eyed girl."

And was puzzled when she burst into laughter.

"What's funny, Granger?" he asked, his brows knitting into a frown. He had never much liked being laughed at when he wasn't specifically going out of his way to be funny. And he hadn't intended his remark to be funny at all, seeing as it was, for all its loving tenderness, basically a declaration of ownership.

So her amusement chafed him.

Still chuckling, she explained, "it's just that it's an old Muggle song- Brown Eyed Girl. You wouldn't have known, of course. And it just seemed funny, those words coming from you, given your innate dislike of all things Muggle."

"Well," Draco said, his expression softening, "not ALL things Muggle. I like THIS brown eyed girl just fine. So, are you going to sing it for me?"

She shook her head. "I don't know all the words. And I wouldn't even if I did. Singing isn't my strong suit- I should think you would know that by now! I'm honestly surprised the unicorns never ran away from my singing voice; Ron once told me I sounded like a scalded cat…in heat."

"Remind me to sucker punch Weasley for that tomorrow," Draco said thoughtfully. Then a wicked gleam came into his eyes. "Well, if you're not going to sing me the song, Granger," he drawled, "you'd better be prepared to put your mouth to a different use!"

He captured her lips in another demanding kiss; one which led, inevitably, to other things.

They didn't leave her room until dinner time, and then it was only their voracious hunger, born of an afternoon of wildly energetic lovemaking, that drove them out.

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The next morning at breakfast, if the head boy and girl seemed once again unusually subdued, it was not this time the result of nightmares, but of a lack of sleep on both their parts, brought on, far more pleasantly, by their continued exploration of one another's bodies throughout the night. And if Harry and Ron seemed rather surly and out of sorts, that was only because their repeated knocks at Hermione's door had gone unanswered and they had been unable, therefore, to procure her assistance with their homework.

Though they made a point of grumbling about it, there were no truly hard feelings, especially once Hermione explained regretfully that she had placed a silencing spell at her door in order to catch up on lost sleep from the weekend, and as a way of making amends, promised to proof read their assignments before class.

Harry, catching the faint blush that tinged Hermione's face as she explained, and the even fainter ghost of a smirk that flitted across Draco's face at her words, suddenly found himself nursing a pretty strong suspicion about what had really been going on- and found, somewhat to his own surprise, that he was happy for her. True, he felt a faint twinge of envy born of his earlier feelings for Hermione, but he had long since resigned himself to her relationship with Draco, and had to admit that Malfoy's intentions toward his cherished friend seemed honorable, and that they made a well-matched couple. So yes, if Malfoy had finally succeeded in showing her that sex was not an act she need live in mortal fear of- (and judging from the glow of happiness and contentment that surrounded her this morning like an aura, he had, and how-) Harry was indeed happy for his friend.

Ron, on the other hand, who had never been quite as observant as Harry, sensed nothing out of the ordinary whatsoever. Thank God. He would NOT have taken Harry's altruistic view of the situation.


	6. Chapter 6: The First Attack

So it was that the next few weeks passed for Draco and Hermione in a state of sheer bliss. The weather grew warmer, the Easter holidays approached, and two less dedicated students would surely have found their studies suffering, so wrapped up were they in each other and the newfound sensual aspect of their relationship. But they were not head boy and girl, and the top students in the school, for nothing; they remained dedicated to their schoolwork and other responsibilities, and somehow found time to get all their homework done, study for their upcoming NEWT exams, and fulfill their obligations as role models to the student body, in addition to partaking, at every opportunity, of pleasures of the flesh.

Though they found themselves needing to get by with significantly less sleep than they had previously been used to.

Life was good, and as they looked forward to the Easter holidays, during which the school would be all but deserted, and planned happily for daily lunches in Hogsmeade with Harry and Ron followed by golden afternoons secluded in Hermione's bedroom, they never guessed that events would soon take a disasterous turn.

For Lucius Malfoy's carefully formulated plan for capturing his errant son was finally ready to be put into action. Stage One would go into effect over the Easter break, when the school was nearly empty, with the assistance of some of Draco's former housemates, who had been specially hand-picked by the elder Malfoy for the job, and had remained at school over the holiday for just this purpose. He had given them explicit instructions on exactly what to do and how to do it; now all that remained was for them to carry those instructions out and Lucius was confident that a chain of events would be set into motion that would ultimately result in his son being home- and shortly thereafter dead- before the school year was out.

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It happened on the last day of Easter break.

It was sunset as the "Gryffindor Four" approached the castle. They had just spent the entire afternoon in Hogsmeade; an idyllic end to what had been an idyllic holiday for all of them. The following day the student body would be returning to Hogwarts, the final term would begin, and for the seventh-years, their studies and preparations for the NEWTS would reach a fever pitch. There would be no more visits to the wizarding village until the exams were over, so Harry, Ron, Draco and Hermione had made the most of their time in the charming little town over the past several days.

Now, however, that their last visit was over with and they faced the prospect of classes resuming, Hermione was, true to her nature, beginning to fret about her studies, and decided that a visit to the library was in order. The three males, however, declined to accompany her, wishing instead to put their last evening of freedom to good use playing wizard chess in the common room. Harry and Ron had easily come to include Draco in their frequent chess marathons, and Draco, for his part, with his highly competitive, and not a little mischievous, nature, thoroughly enjoyed first watching the two old friends play each other (while giving them both intentionally disastrous advice), and then playing the winner. It was all the better for him if it was Harry who won against Ron and then played him; he enjoyed playing Harry because, just as when they had been opposing seekers in the game of Quidditch, they were evenly matched and tended to have similar strategies. This made for extremely interesting and challenging chess games. Then there was the fact that when Draco played Harry, it meant that Harry had beaten Ron, who, in Draco's opinion, sulked on these occasions like a spoilt child, giving Draco immense pleasure in further taunting and goading him. He still got a thrill out of causing Ron's face to turn a brighter shade of red than his hair. Yes, all in all, Draco was anticipating a very pleasant evening.

So it was that the four of them parted ways at the top of the marble stairs; Harry, Ron and Draco heading up to Gryffindor Tower, and Hermione turning off toward the library.

And it was then that things went terribly wrong.

Or, as far as Lucius Malfoy would have been concerned, perfectly right.

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Mere seconds after Hermione had disappeared from sight, just as Draco was opening his mouth to begin his traditional pre-game taunting of Ron, the three boys were brought up short by a startled cry, followed immediately by sounds of a struggle, from around a bend in the corridor, in the direction of the library.

Harry, Ron and Draco stopped in their tracks, frozen for just a fraction of a second in absolute horror. For Ron and Harry, there was a cold, sick sense of déjà vu as the three boys whirled and began to race toward the sounds. For Draco there was no conscious thought at all; just a driving desire to hurt, maim, kill, as they rounded the corner and an awful sight met their eyes.

Blaise Zabini, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle (who had taken to following him around after Draco's resorting into Gryfindor), was holding a stuggling Hermione pinned to the wall by her throat. It appeared, at first glance, to be a ghastly reenactment of the attack by Voldemort a year before (though that was impossible; Blaise didn't know about the nature of that attack- how could he?), with the only major difference being that Blaise was using both hands to hold her and still having trouble; he lacked Voldemort's almost superhuman strength, and Hermione was fighting like a wildcat. Even as the three enraged Gryffindors tore toward her, though, her struggles were weakening due to lack of breath.

Still, she managed to land a pretty good kick to a rather sensitive part of Blaise's anatomy, as "her boys" closed the distance that separated them from her at a dead run.

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"GET YOUR BLOODY HANDS OFF HER, ZABINI!"

Draco was a silver-haired blur as he launched himself at his former dorm-mate. He moved far too fast for the dimwitted Crabbe and Goyle to react in time; even Blaise had only just begun to turn and reach for his wand when Draco crashed into him full force, slamming him against the wall, fists beginning to fly.

Hermione, released at last, sucked in a great, ragged breath and slid down the wall, coughing weakly, hands at her throat. Hitting the floor, she pulled her knees tightly up to her body and dropped her face onto them, seemingly oblivious to Draco and Blaise battling inches from her.

Chaos ensued.

Ron and Harry, quite as beside themselves as Draco, attacked Crabbe and Goyle viciously without pausing to consider the consequences- which, as it turned out, were considerably worse for the Slytherins, who had been caught completely off guard by the suddenness and severity of the attack. Though Harry and Ron were smaller, they were quicker and were both possessed of a fierce, wiry strength that more than compensated for Crabbe and Goyle's slow, heavy swings. Besides which, they, like Draco, were currently in the throes of a complete berserker rage. The big, dull Slytherin thugs hardly knew what hit them.

Altogether, the fracas lasted a good seven or eight minutes, and ended with all three Slytherins flat on the floor. Draco might quite possibly have beaten Blaise to death, had not Harry and Ron, once they had dispatched of Crabbe and Goyle, dragged him away, still swinging madly.

"LEAVE HIM!" Harry shouted, yanking him backwards off Blaise, whom he had been straddling and punching repeatedly in the face. "Malfoy- for God's sake- we gotta get outta here! MALFOY!" he shook him hard as Draco continued to strain toward the groaning Zabini. "Do you wanna get expelled? Is that what you're after? I don't think Hermione could take that right now!" Draco went abruptly still at Hermione's name. His eyes leaving Blaise's huddled form for the first time, he looked first at Harry, whose nose was bleeding profusely, then over to where Ron, sporting the beginnings of a spectacular black eye, was handing Hermione back her wand (which had been tossed aside by Blaise as she had reached for it when he had first ambushed her) and gathering her into his arms, preparing to flee with her back to Gryffindor Tower before Filch or any teacher should arrive on the scene.

Hermione appeared to be in a state of deep shock. Her eyes were open, but glazed and unseeing. When Ron murmured to her to put her arms around his neck, she obeyed silently and mechanically. Ron glanced over at Harry and Draco, where they knelt on the floor. "I'm getting her the hell out of here," he said. "You coming?" Without waiting for a reply, he sprinted off down the corridor, Hermione clasped firmly to his chest.

Harry stood and pulled Draco up after him. Both boys wiped blood from their faces- Draco had a bloody nose to rival Harry's, and a split lip besides. Still, he was loathe to go; staring down at Blaise, his rage and hatred were burning nearly out of control. Harry gripped him hard by the arm and attempted to pull him away. Finally, after settling for one more vicious parting kick, he turned, spat a mouthful of blood on the floor, and followed Harry at a fast jog toward Gryffindor Tower, leaving the Slytherins to lick their wounds.

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Crabbe and Goyle clambered slowly to their feet, then helped the wincing, bloodied Blaise up as well. As soon as Blaise had steadied himself, using the wall for support, they both began talking at once, cracking their knuckles and glowering about threateningly, now that the danger was gone.

"Next time things will be different-"

"When we tell professor Snape what they did, he'll-"

"SHUT UP!" Blaise snapped. As the two oafs stared at him in open-mouthed surprise, he continued in a low, dangerous voice; "you listen to me and you listen good. There's not going to be a next time, and we tell no one about this- NO ONE, except for the one that hired us, you understand?"

Crabbe and Goyle nodded dumbly.

"He said that we would be generously compensated for any injuries we sustained as a result of putting his plan into action," Blaise continued, "so as far as I'm concerned-" he paused and spat out a tooth- "this setup was a complete success. We'll get hefty bonuses, and it looks like Lucius Malfoy will get exactly the information he was hoping for." He nodded grimly and added, more to himself than the others, "yes, I believe Mr. Malfoy was hoping Draco would react just like that- why, I don't know, and it's not our business to know, as long as we get our galleons."

He turned and started heading slowly, limping, back toward the dungeons. A moment later he looked back over his shoulder to see Crabbe and Goyle still standing immobile, staring at him stupidly. "Well, are you two idiots coming?" he barked in irritation. "We have to floo Mr. Malfoy and tell him what happened, or don't you want to get paid?"

Their piggy little eyes brightening at the words "get paid", Crabbe and Goyle broke into a trot, following Blaise toward the Slytherin common room, its fireplace, and a floo conference with Lucius Malfoy.

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When Harry and Draco stumbled through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room, it was to find that Ron had deposited Hermione in one of the overstuffed armchairs and was now pacing tightly back and forth before the fireplace, both fists clenched in his hair, which appeared molten in the light of the flames. He was muttering furiously to himself, and just as Harry and Draco entered, he kicked over an unoccupied chair with a cry of rage.

If anything about the situation could be considered fortunate, it was that the room was otherwise completely empty, owing to its being the last day of the Easter holidays.

Harry crossed to Ron, and Draco to Hermione. Kneeling in front of the chair where she sat huddled, staring blankly into the fire, Draco took her gently but firmly by the upper arms, turning her fully toward him. Her eyes remained distant, her face expressionless. She was trembling from head to toe. Without a word, he took her chin in his hand and tilted her head this way and that, inspecting the bruises that were beginning to show on her throat. Then, with a rare tenderness, he placed the tip of his wand against them and murmured a healing spell, causing the barely formed marks to fade away again. Still without speaking, he folded her into his arms and settled himself in the chair, with her crosswise in his lap. With a deep, shuddery sigh, she let her head fall onto his shoulder, and he commenced stroking her hair.

Harry, meanwhile, placed himself directly in front of Ron in order to stop his increasingly agitated pacing. Being forced to halt abruptly, Ron looked for a moment as though he was actually considering taking a swing at Harry, but then apparently thought better of it and simply stood there, staring at his best friend, panting, jaw clenched, his hands now fisted at his sides and his blue-black eyes sparkling with unshed tears of anger.

Pulling out his wand, Harry healed Ron's eye the same way Draco had healed Hermione's bruises, then, clasping the redhead's shoulder, said simply, "let's fly." Ron hesitated a moment, shot a glance over at Draco cradling Hermione in the armchair, then gave a single, terse nod. Without further discussion, the two boys retrieved their broomsticks from their dorm and headed down to the quidditch field to give Draco and Hermione some privacy, and attempt to calm themselves through flight.

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"So you mean to tell me that my son did all that to you?" asked Lucius Malfoy's head dryly from its place in the flames.

"Yes," Blaise answered, with as much dignity as he could muster.

Lucius was silent for a moment, looking Blaise over appraisingly. Draco had clearly done a number on him. "Did you even try to defend yourself?"

"Yes," said Blaise resentfully; "he was like a maniac."

"I see," said Lucius, looking suddenly very smug. "So you would say he truly does appear to- er-" his face twisted into an expression of intense distaste- "love the mudblood?"

"He's crazy in love," said Blaise flatly; "he'd do anything for her, like I tried to tell you before this whole pointless exercise-"

"Silence," snapped Lucius; "I will decide what's pointless and what's not. You will be a good boy and do as you're told, and get paid accordingly. That's how this little arrangement works." Blaise glowered, but said nothing. The smug expression returned to Lucius' face. "So," he mused, "he would do anything for her. I had suspected as much, but I wanted absolute proof before proceeding any further, and now I have it." He lapsed into thought for a long moment as Blaise fidgeted. When next Lucius spoke, his voice was brisk. "An owl will be arriving within twenty-four hours, bearing payment for you and your- er- assistants. I trust that you will dispense the funds fairly amongst the three of you?"

"Oh yes," said Blaise, with a sneer that made Lucius nod his head appreciatively.

"Good. Then it's time to discuss stage two of our little plan. I believe your two friends have served their purpose; your next assignment is a one-man job." Lucius paused as Blaise dismissed Crabbe and Goyle with an imperious flick of his hand. "This stage will require stealth and cunning; I will need you to infiltrate Gryffindor Tower. You see, I must have the exact coordinates within the castle of the mudblood's bedroom; coordinates precise enough to allow me to arrive there by portkey. A second owl will be dispatched to you, bearing an invisibility cloak. If you succeed at this mission, you will be allowed to keep the cloak, in addition to a generous monetary payment."

Blaise's eyes lit up. "Tell me exactly what to do."

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Though they started at the quidditch pitch, Ron and Harry were soon ranging all over the Hogwarts grounds on their broomsticks. Harry had never seen Ron fly like this before. He flew silently and with furious speed and recklessness; spirals and barrel-rolls and near-vertical dives. He flew like a person who cares nothing for the consequences of his actions. He flew, Harry thought, as a sick, gnawing fear for his friend was born in the pit of his stomach, almost like someone with a death wish.

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For well over an hour Draco sat in front of the fire with Hermione cradled in his arms, before standing and carrying her, still silent and unresisting, to her bed. He had intended to tuck her in and return to his own room, because he had some heavy thinking to do, but when he attempted to disengage himself from her, she caught hold of his sweater and wouldn't let go. Still not looking directly at him, still not saying a word, she clung to him for dear life. Feeling as though his heart would break, especially considering the topic which was currently occupying his thoughts, Draco settled himself beside her, nestling her head in the crook of his arm.

Her fingers still caught in the folds of his sweater, she finally drifted into a restless sleep, but Draco lay awake all night, contemplating the action he knew he would have to take, and take soon. From the moment he had come upon Blaise pinning her to the wall, he had known what he must do. Clearly Hermione was in danger because of her association with him; the Slytherins had apparently decided to give up on trying to hurt him directly and had found, instead, a new target for their anger and hatred; her. And it ripped him apart; seeing her in harm's way just killed him. He would rather be beaten to a bloody pulp by every overgrown thug in Slytherin House- beaten to within an inch of his life- than see them touch one single precious hair on Hermione's head.

But it wouldn't stop here. Having found his weakness, having discovered how to wound him to the core, they were sure to continue exploiting it by hurting her every chance they got. He couldn't let that happen. There was no way in hell he was going to let that happen. No way.

Nor was that all- an even deeper fear was nagging at him. The WAY in which Blaise had pinned her against the wall- the _position_ he had been in when Draco, Harry and Ron had rounded the corner and first set eyes on him- could it possibly be coincidence that it was an almost perfect reenactment of Voldemort's attack on her last year? If so, then it was a pretty fucking big coincidence. Draco hadn't witnessed that first attack himself, but he had heard it described and besides, one glance at Harry and Ron's faces in that instant- the sheer horror in their expressions- had been all the proof he needed; they had been looking into the past, all right; looking at Voldemort about to rape Hermione before their eyes.

Except that this time there had been no invisible barrier to hold them back.

Draco allowed himself the fleeting luxury of a grim smile. Zabini, Crabbe and Goyle had paid, all right. But that was beside the point. He couldn't allow himself to get sidetracked; no matter how painful it was, he had to think this situation all the way through. And it WAS painful, because he already knew what conclusion his thoughts would inevitably lead him to. His decision had already been made, and sticking to it would be the hardest thing he'd ever have to do. But returning to the coincidence issue-

Draco had never been a big believer in coincidence. He was one of those who adhered to the philosophy that if it looks like shit and smells like shit, it's probably shit. And this looked and smelled to him like a setup. Like Zabini had been deliberately trying to push his buttons by recreating the exact circumstances of the rape. There was only one problem with this theory; Zabini didn't- _couldn't_- know about the rape. Could he? No one at Hogwarts knew about it except for Draco, Harry, Ron and the faculty- certainly no one who would wish to use the information to hurt Hermione. But there was one person Draco knew of who was aware of the rape and WAS cruel enough to use that knowledge against Hermione- against them all. His father.

Draco could only assume that Voldemort had told Lucius, his right-hand man, about it during the week or so that had elapsed between the time of the attack and the fateful day on which he and Hermione, Harry and Ron had surprised the Dark Lord in his lair and worked together, for the first time, to overcome him. To kill him. The day on which he, Draco, had nearly died as well. When Lucius had made an unwelcome appearance in Draco's hospital room the following night, he had taunted them all by referring to Hermione as Voldemort's "little fuck toy", causing Draco to drop his wand and attack him physically.

So Lucius knew the true nature of Voldemort's attack on Hermione, and was one of only a handful of people who did. The only one out of that handful who would use the knowledge in a malicious way. Oh hell yes, he would. Absolutely.

But the thing Draco couldn't figure out was, to what purpose? He certainly would not put it past his father to hire one of his former housemates to stage the rape (and Blaise would be the ideal choice; he was intelligent, cunning, ruthlessly ambitious, and his absolute loyalty could be bought for the right price), but Lucius did nothing without good reason. Especially now that he seemed to be in the early stages of rising to power as a new Dark Lord, he was treading very, very carefully. If he were to go to this much trouble and expense (for Blaise's loyalty wouldn't come cheap; Draco was sure of that), it would have to be for a damn good reason; a reason even more compelling than simply causing torment for his now-hated son and the girl who had, in Lucius' opinion, "corrupted" him. So if he was in fact behind this, then the question was, simply put, why?

Draco could not, try as he might, come up with a suitable answer to this question. He shook his head in frustration. The sky outside was lightening- his thoughts had been chasing themselves in circles all night and he still hadn't come up with a satisfactory explanation for his father's motive- if indeed Lucius were responsible for this at all. He supposed that there remained the possibility, however remote, that Zabini had been acting independently and that any resemblance to last year's attack HAD just been coincidental. He would almost rather believe that- it would be the lesser of two evils.

Because if Lucius WAS behind this, it meant that something bad was afoot. Something very, very bad.

Draco sighed as Hermione stirred in her sleep, throwing a leg over him. In the end, the motive behind the attack was a moot point, really. Even the party ultimately responsible for it was a moot point; whether Zabini had been acting on his own or under someone else's orders, the end result was the same. The fact that the attack had occurred at all meant that Draco had to take action to protect Hermione, and there was only one thing he could think of doing that he was certain would convince the Slytherins to leave her alone.

Ah God, he didn't want to do it.

But he had to.

Her safety was more important than his own happiness. As long as he knew she was out of harm's way, he could stand anything. Even a life without her in it.

Maybe if he told himself that enough times, it would make it true.

_I can't do it today,_ he thought, his eyes going to the bay window beside the bed, through which beautiful, rosy dawn light was now streaming. _Not this soon, I- I'm just not ready. Not today. _

He pulled Hermione closer to him. _One week,_ he thought with grim resolve; _I'll give myself one week- seven days- then I'm going through with it._

He would do what he had to do to ensure that she could live her life free of this kind of fear and harassment. Even though it would mean destroying his own life in the process.

Because what he had to do was remove himself from her life so suddenly, completely and violently that the Slytherins would be left with the impression that harming her would have no effect whatsoever on him. He had to make it look as though he hated her.

And he had to make her genuinely hate him.

Then they would leave her alone.

It was the only way.


	7. Chapter 7: Breakup

The students who came pouring back into the school after the holiday noticed a change in the dynamic of the foursome, but it wasn't so drastic a difference as to cause much comment- at least, not at first. All four seemed quieter than usual; Hermione in particular barely said a word either in class or out of it, which was somewhat surprising after she had seemed to be coming out of her shell shortly before Easter, but which was, on the other hand, perfectly typical of her behavior for months beforehand, and so caused a few raised eyebrows, but no real concern.

Harry and Ron never let her out of their sight from the time they left Gryffindor Tower for breakfast in the mornings until they returned to it after dinner; no matter where she was in the school or on the grounds, they could be seen on either side of her; a pair of grim-eyed guardians with their hands always hovering close to their wands. Again, it was just the sort of super-protective behavior that they had displayed for months; it had been easing off before the holiday, but was now back in full force.

Draco's actions, however, caused the most amount of puzzlement to those Gryffindors who were observant enough to notice the difference in his behavior toward Hermione when inside Gryffindor Tower as opposed to when he was out in the school at large. Inside the Tower, he was never more than arm's length away from her; he was like a silver-haired shadow that seemed unable to bear being parted from her even for a moment.

He maintained near-constant physical contact with her. Sometimes it was an arm slung about her shoulders or lightly circling her waist; at other times, his hands lost in her thick, unruly hair, idly twirling dark curls about his fingers; or their legs pressed together as they sat smushed into a single armchair near the fire, doing their homework side-by-side on a small table they had drawn over to themselves with a summoning charm; Hermione writing right-handed, Draco left, in perfect harmony.

During these times, he was, in fact, desperately drinking in everything about her; each expression and gesture; the feel of her soft skin against his; her cloud of dark hair; her ink-stained fingers entwined with his own when they weren't engaged in turning out yard-long scrolls of homework in her small, tidy handwriting; her brow furrowed and lips pursed in concentration as she sat before the fire with a venerable old book spread open on her lap, Crookshanks curled contentedly at her feet.

And oh, at night- they spent every single night together, making love until they exhausted themselves and fell into oblivion, wrapped in one another's arms, and Draco noticed that not once did Hermione take her dreamless sleep potion- but nor did she have a single nightmare. His presence in her bed every night, all night, seemed enough to keep the bad dreams at bay.

He was experiencing her to the fullest extent possible, and was mentally filing the experiences away to be his sustenance once he had gone through with his plan of removing her from his life forever.

All within the safe, sheltered confines of Gryffindor Tower.

Outside the Tower, though, in the rest of the school- he was like a different person. Under the gaze of the other houses, he was already beginning to distance himself from Hermione; already practicing for the day he knew was coming soon, even if no one else did; the day when he and Hermione would no longer be a couple.

He rarely walked through the halls with her anymore, content that she was safe under Harry and Ron's constant vigilance. He no longer sat next to her in class or at meals, nor could the two of them be seen sitting side by side in the library, heads close together, poring over a single book, as had been so common in months gone by. He barely spoke to her and when he did, his tone was curt and businesslike.

As for Hermione, she appeared more or less oblivious to the coolness he displayed towards her when out and about in the school, as she spent most of her time outside Gryffindor Tower silent and apparently preoccupied, with her head bowed and eyes downcast, being shepherded from class to class by Ron and Harry. She didn't look up often enough, it seemed, to take much note of Draco's absence from her side.

It was, overall, a very disconcerting situation for the rest of the Hogwarts population to witness. The Gryffindors, who knew how affectionate Draco remained in private, were increasingly perplexed as more of them began to notice his aloofness towards Hermione when in the school's public areas. The members of the three other houses, who of course were unaware of what went on in Gryffindor Tower in the evenings, began to buzz with rumors that all was not well with the school's most celebrated couple. Many of them maintained that something horrible must have happened over the holiday that was slowly poisoning the relationship. This was, of course, absolutely true- but most of the rumor-mongers were envisioning a horrific lovers' spat; no one knew the truth, or came anywhere close to guessing, except for the Gryffindor Four themselves and three smug and well-paid Slytherins who weren't talking.

Thus, the week Draco had appointed himself passed in an odd sort of duality.

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Draco awoke on the dreaded morning tangled together with Hermione in a jumble of limbs and blankets, with the feeling that his insides had been ripped out and replaced by hot lead. A dull sense of horror at what he knew he must do was beating behind his temples, but his resolve had not faltered over the past week; if anything it had strengthened.

He had to protect Hermione; he would not let the Slytherins hurt her again. By the end of the day, considering how quickly gossip traveled through Hogwarts, the Slytherins would be under the very strong impression that hurting Hermione to get at Draco would be a waste of time and effort. Because the entire school- Hermione included- would be under the impression that he wouldn't care in the least.

By the end of the day, his life would be, essentially, over; everything that had come to matter to him over the past year- not only Hermione's love, but also Harry and Ron's friendship and the close-knit camaraderie of the Gryffindors in general- would be lost to him. They would all hate him for what he was about to do. He would be a pariah once more. But Hermione would be safe, and that was all that mattered.

He would endure whatever he needed to endure in order to ensure her safety. It never occurred to him, even for a second, that what he was planning to do to her might be far more cruel than any torment the Slytherins could devise; he wasn't thinking that way. He was only thinking in terms of saving Hermione from physical harm. Being, as he was, the product of a loveless upbringing, he didn't- he _couldn't_- even after dating her for a year- fathom the fact that Hermione might actually love him as wholly and fiercely as he loved her, and that she would therefore suffer as much as he would for his actions that day- more, in fact, because at least he had given himself time to come to terms with what he was about to do, whereas she would be completely blindsided.

No, all he possessed was a vague notion that she was going to be upset for a while, and an understanding that her initial reaction would likely take one of two forms; anger or depression.

He had already worked out exactly what to say and do in order to, hopefully, achieve his desired effect; he didn't want Hermione to end this day beaten-down, miserable and depressed; that could potentially make her even more of a target to the Slytherins- they preyed on just that sort of weakness. No, he wanted her to end this day royally pissed off. He wanted her to hate him as much as he was going to make her believe he hated her. He had seen her in a rage before, and she was formidable. If he could get her good and mad, she would be nobody's victim. Now all that remained was to watch and wait for the perfect time to do it; in order for his plan to be effective, after all, there would need to be plenty of witnesses so that word of mouth would reach the Slytherins quickly.

Hermione was still sleeping peacefully in his arms; her breathing deep and even. He snuggled closer to her, burying his face in her soft, sweet-scented hair. "I love you so much, bookworm," he whispered, "and I always will. No matter what I say or do, I always will."

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He stood outside the library door, preparing himself. It was nearly showtime. Hermione was inside, studying over lunch, and so were half the seventh year students at Hogwarts; now that Easter Break was over, the NEWTs were fast approaching, after all. It was the perfect time to put his plan into action; the perfect time to violently and irreversibly push the only person he truly loved out of his life forever.

_It has to be done. Better to have her hate me than to have her hurt or_…_ or dead._

That thought steeled him. _Game face,_ he told himself; _time to put your game face on. That cold Slytherin sneer- you wore it for six years; surely it shouldn't be too hard to conjure up again now. You'd better, and quick, because you're on in five_…_four_…_three_…

With a flick of his wand, he turned a portion of the blank stone wall outside the library into a mirror, checked his appearance- _cool as ice, even his eyes, belying no hint of the fact that he knew damn well when he exited the library some ten minutes later it would be as a broken man_- ran a hand through his pale hair, then vanished the mirror and-

Strode purposefully through the door.

He spotted her almost at once, nearly hidden behind a stack of massive old books, but easily within sight and earshot of at least two dozen other seventh years of all Houses.

Good.

Plastering the sneer that had been his trademark for so long onto his face, he advanced on her. "Granger," he drawled, reaching her- too late for second thoughts now; he was past the point of no return- "we need to talk."

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Slamming his bedroom door shut behind him, Draco collapsed back against it, pausing just long enough to mutter an advanced locking spell- a spell that no simple "Alohomora" would be able to remove- before dropping his wand to the floor and raising his hands to cover his face, stifling an agonized groan.

His pain was at least partly physical- he _DID_ hurt; Hermione had seen to that- but the physical ache in his groin, where she had kneed him, hard, paled in comparison to the ache in his heart. He had done it, and done it well. She would hate him passionately now, and that would ensure her safety, from the Slytherins, from his father- from anyone who might think to hurt her as a means of hurting him. But that thought provided scant comfort for him right now when he had just lost- through his own decision, his own actions- the one person who had made his life truly worth living.

With his back to the door, he slid slowly down to a sitting position on the floor, drawing his knees up to his chest as he went over in his mind what had just transpired in the library. The things- the God-awful things he had said to her, the emotions that had run across her face; shock, incredulity, hurt, betrayal, and finally, rage- the emotion he had set about to create in her.

He could hear the whole thing begin to replay in his head.

"Granger," he had drawled, "we need to talk."

She had glanced up from her book then, a welcoming smile beginning to curve her lips- she did not, as yet, realize that anything was amiss; they often called each other by their last names, after all, in a gentle, teasing manner. Little did she imagine then that this conversation would be anything but gentle.

"Draco," she said, "I've been hoping you'd turn up. There's a difficult problem on page 542 that I thought you could…help…" her brow furrowed at the cold, smirking expression on his face. "Draco- is something wrong?"

And then- oh God, and then-

No. He shook his head, just one time, back and forth, hard. He _couldn't_ relive the confrontation just now. He couldn't stand to.

Groping beside him on the floor, he picked up his wand and pointed it at his nightstand. "Accio," he said, and the little drawer opened, allowing a small object to shoot out and fly across the room into his outstretched hand.

It was the item he had secretly bought in Hogsmeade the afternoon before his and Hermione's last visit to the unicorns; the afternoon before the night when they had first made love.

It was, he had thought at the time, the most important gift he would ever buy her, and he had planned to present it to her on their graduation day.

It was a tiny, black velvet jewelry box.

He popped it open with his thumb and stared at the sparkling object nestled within, watching it double, then triple before his blurring eyes. He blinked hard against the impending tears, but to no avail. First one, and then another streaked down his face.

"Hermione," he said hoarsely.

Then he snapped the box shut, hurled it savagely against the opposite wall, dropped his head onto his knees, and sobbed.

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In the library, shocked silence reigned.

After Draco had exited, the seventh year students from the other Houses had quickly made themselves scarce, most of them feeling an intense discomfort at being confronted by this purely Gryffindor drama, coupled with an equally intense desire to find their friends and housemates and begin spreading the tale of how the Head Boy had just dumped the Head Girl in the most unimaginably cruel way possible. While the majority of them left the library feeling outraged or incredulous at Draco's behavior, Pansy Parkinson and the other Slytherins who had witnessed the scene were hard put to contain their glee.

In a matter of moments, only Hermione and the other seventh-year Gryffindors were left. Hermione, who had been standing tall when first Draco, then the other students, had filed out, abruptly sat down hard on the floor, leaning back against one of the legs of the table she had been working on. This spurred the other Gryffindors present, Parvati Patil, Lavender Brown, and Neville Longbottom, who had all been frozen in disbelieving shock, into immediate action

Neville reached her first, scrambling around the table and dropping into a squat beside her. He looked angrier than anyone at Hogwarts had ever seen him look in seven years, but Hermione was past noticing at this point. She was staring straight ahead, into the middle distance; her eyes were dry but she wore an expression of deep, uncomprehending shock which was far more alarming than tears would have been.

"He's not going to get away with this," Neville was saying, his fists clenched, color high. "There's just no way we're gonna let this go- no bloody way! You just say the word Hermione- I know I speak for Dean and Seamus too- we'll rip that bastard a new-"

"Neville!" It was Lavender. Following him around the table, she and Parvati had arrived to kneel at Hermione's side. "Hush. She doesn't need this right now. There's a time and place for everything- and Malfoy WILL get his- but right now- right now…" she trailed off, looking at Hermione, who was still staring fixedly at nothing, seeming completely oblivious to anything that was going on around her.

"Hermione," Lavender said quietly, gently grasping the unresponsive girl's shoulders in an attempt to provoke a reaction. Hermione turned her head slowly toward Lavender, but her eyes remained unfocused. This was really worrying; Lavender had survived her share of heartbreaks, and had helped both of the Patil twins, plus Hanna Abbot and Susan Bones, recover from some fairly nasty breakups as well- on one very odd occasion, she had even offered comfort to a crying Millicent Bulstrode, who'd been devastated by a split with Gregory Goyle- but she had never seen anything like this before; never seen anything like Draco's abhorrent behavior OR Hermione's resultant state of near catatonia.

"Hermione," she said again, falteringly. Then, "are you okay?"

Very slowly, without making a sound, Hermione shook her head.

"Do you want Harry and Ron?"

Hermione nodded. Barely, but she nodded.

"Do you know where they are?"

Another nod.

"You have to tell me, love. I don't know."

A single word, which Lavender had to lean in close in order to catch; "Hagrid."

"Neville," said Lavender, her eyes never leaving Hermione's face, "go and get Harry and Ron from Hagrid's house, please. Right now."

Neville didn't need telling twice. When he was gone, Lavender settled down next to Hermione, folding herself gracefully into a sitting position, leaning her back against the same thick table leg that Hermione was using as a support and throwing an arm over the silent girl's shoulder, giving her a sisterly squeeze. Parvati sat down on Hermione's other side, the pair of friends sandwiching the bereft girl securely between them.

"You will get over this, you know," Lavender said after a long silence. No reply. "I know you probably don't believe me right now but- you will. We may not be the best of friends, but I was your roommate for six years, and I know what a strong person you are. You've weathered other storms. You'll weather this one." She gave Hermione another squeeze.

"Men can be such scum, can't they?" she added after a moment's thought.

Hermione continued to stare into space.

After that, the three girls sat in silence until pounding footsteps in the hall heralded the return of Neville, with Harry and Ron in tow.

As Neville hovered uncertainly in the background, Ron and Harry dropped to their knees beside Hermione. Neither of them spoke at all; they had been briefed by Neville on the way, and their anger seemed beyond words. Ron first studied her intently, as if checking for signs of physical injury, then, slipping a hand under her chin, tilted her face toward his; her eyes dark with despair, his with rage.

After a long moment, her far away eyes appeared to focus on him. "Ron," she said, in a dazed voice. That was all.

In a very quiet, very clear voice, Ron said, "I am going to kill him."

Then he got up and stalked out of the library, punching the wall beside the door as he went.

Without a word, Harry gathered Hermione into his arms, holding her to him fiercely, rocking her.

Neville, Parvati and Lavender took this as their cue to leave.

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About half an hour later, Harry and Hermione could be seen returning to Gryffindor Tower, walking slowly, Harry's arm slung protectively about her shoulders. Hermione had the blank look of a sleepwalker about her.

Ron spent the entire afternoon and evening railing at Draco through his locked door, trying every combination he could think of, of magic and brute force, to gain entrance into the head boy's room. Fortunately for Draco, the advanced locking spell he had placed on his door had been very competently performed, and Ron was unsuccessful. Had the volatile redhead managed to get into the room in his present state of mind- well, it would have been bad. He kept hearing over and over in his mind Neville's voice reporting, horrified, the things Draco had said loud enough for the whole library to hear- _you were nothing but a good fuck, Granger! _That Draco should have stolen from him the girl he had loved since first year, and then treated her like this- it was maddening. It kept him in a state of constant frenzy until Harry came and dragged him away, struggling and cursing, near ten at night.

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Dean, Neville and Seamus did not complain when Hermione spent that night, and indeed the next several nights, in the seventh year boys' dorm. She took Harry's bed, and Harry in turn bunked with Ron. (Harry had thought this prudent, anyway, to keep Ron from sneaking out in the middle of the night and resuming his siege on Draco's room.) She simply couldn't face her suddenly too-large room, the now cold and empty bed that she had shared with Draco for just a few golden weeks, the bed in which he had told her she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, that she was his forever; his brown-eyed girl. And she had believed him; God, she had believed him with all her heart. She had thought they were making love in that bed when really- really-

"…_Nothing but a good fuck, Granger-_"she heard again that cold, sneering voice in her mind- "_you were a challenge and I love a challenge, but now the novelty's worn off, what can I say? I promised you that when I got sick of you you'd be the first to know, and I'm keeping my promise. Never let it be said that I'm not a man of my word."_

And then, when she had protested, deep in shock, before the anger had had a chance to set in, asking how he could say that, how he could do this, when she knew he loved her, she _KNEW_ it- then had come the worst part; the expression on his face as he had shaken his head, tutting her condescendingly. _"And you're the brightest girl in this school,"_ he had drawled; "_THINK, mudblood; just think back a minute. Have I ever actually told you I loved you? Even once? 'Hermione, I love you'- have I ever once said those words to you? HAVE I?" _And as her mind had raced, frantically, back over all the months of their relationship, she had been forced to concede that he never had- he had said some things that she had taken (erroneously, as was now obvious) to be declarations of love, but he had never said those four words together- Hermione, I love you- not once.

"_No,"_ she had been forced to whisper, stricken.

And he had smiled. No, not smiled; smirked. _"No,"_ he had echoed, mockingly; _"that's right, Granger; no. Because it would have been a lie, and whatever else I may be, I am not a liar and you know it. So I would strongly suggest-"_ his smirk had broadened- _"that the next time around, you wait until you hear those three all-important little words before you go and spread your l- OOPH!"_

He had broken off, doubled over in pain, for at that moment her anger had risen suddenly and swiftly; a crimson wave, overpowering her, and she had driven her knee with all the force she could muster into his groin. But by the time he had straightened up, glaring daggers at her out of his pale eyes, and then made his exit from the library, the wave of rage had passed, leaving her drained and despairing in its wake.

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During the day, now, Hermione took great care to maintain her composure; in the Great Hall at mealtimes, in the corridors, in the classrooms, flanked at all times by Harry and Ron and surrounded by loyal Gryffindors who had rallied to her side in her time of need, she kept an air of aloof calm about her. When she and Draco crossed paths, she looked through him as though he wasn't there. She appeared strong, resilient, and poised, giving no satisfaction to the Slytherins who watched her so eagerly for signs of weakness that could be exploited, refusing to rise to the bait of their taunts. In the dungeons one day as the Gryffindors and Slytherins waited together for admittance to the potions lab, when Pansy asked Hermione how it felt to be cast off by her boyfriend like so much mudblood trash, it was, surprisingly enough, Parvati who stepped forward and slapped the smirking Slytherenne right across the face. Then, to the further astonishment of everyone present, Snape, who had stepped out of his classroom just in time to witness the confrontation, docked ten points from Gryffindor for Parvati's actions- and _ten points from Slytherin_ for Pansy's remark!

That Snape should have deducted points evenly from Gryffindor and Slytherin Houses was a first. That was enough to knock the wind out of the Slytherins' sails for a good long time, once their total, uncomprehending shock wore off.

Hermione even single-handedly prevented the seventh-year Gryffindor boys from forming a posse and going after Draco to administer their own brand of justice for his treatment of her, telling them firmly that she did not want violence and that he wasn't worth the effort. She made Harry and Ron, in particular, promise that they would defer to her wishes in this matter and leave Draco alone. Every time they saw Draco in the corridors, she laid a restraining hand on Ron's arm.

Yes, in front of the school- even in front of her friends- she seemed entirely calm and collected. It was only late at night, in Harry's bed, with the curtains drawn closed for privacy, that she allowed herself to give in to her despair.

Every night, with the covers pulled up over her head and her face buried in a pillow to stifle the sound, she sobbed.

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As for Draco, he kept himself to himself, being, as he was, currently the most despised person in the school. The Gryffindors, of course, who had once welcomed him with such friendly ease into their midst, now hated him with a fiery passion; more than one of them (chiefly Ron) would have dearly liked to rip him apart bare handed.

The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs loathed him; their hatred was not of the personal nature that the Gryffindors' was, but rather stemmed from a bitter disillusionment, and disgust that they had actually bought into the fairytale romance and had believed wholeheartedly that the one-time Slytherin bad boy had turned good.

The Slytherins, though they absolutely reveled in the breakup, and more specifically, the manner in which it had occurred, still considered Draco a filthy traitor both for having been instrumental in the death of Voldemort and for his defection, shortly thereafter, to Gryffindor House, and would never accept him back into their fold.

Even the teachers were hard-pressed not to let their anger at his treatment of the school's star student show. In fact, some of them did let it show very clearly indeed. Though most of the faculty had simply turned somewhat cool and aloof toward the head boy, Hagrid and Professor McGonagall were downright hostile. Snape alone reserved judgment, studying Draco with puzzled, dark eyes, suspecting that there was more- much more- to the situation than met the eye. Knowing the boy as well as he did, Snape was sure of two things; first, that Draco absolutely had loved Hermione, with a burning love that couldn't just be switched off, and so therefore he most likely loved her still; and second, that he must have reasons, and very compelling ones, for acting in this manner. He did not broach the subject with Draco, however, knowing that if the boy ever wanted to talk about it he would seek him out, and that no amount of effort on his part, short of administering veritaserum, would compel Draco to confide in him unless and until he felt ready to do so.

Snape sincerely hoped that Draco _would_ decide to do so, and soon, for it was clear to him, though to no one else, that the boy was suffering. No one else was able to- or particularly even _wanted_ to – look past his cold, sneering façade- but Snape, who knew and loved Draco as if he were his own son, could see the pain in those ice blue eyes.

So Draco was shunned by one and all, but if the truth were to be known, this fact really barely registered with him, so deeply was he sunk into his own personal hell- for it was not the loss of his popularity that had mired him in this pit of despair, but rather the loss of the only person whose opinion of him he had actually valued, and who now had far more personal and compelling reasons to hate him than did the rest of the school, due to his atrocious treatment of her.

Every time their paths crossed in class, in the halls, or the common room, he drank in the sight of her with the desperate thirst of a man lost in a desert who spies a beautiful, yet unattainable, mirage. Even so, he watched her surreptitiously, only out of the corners of his pale eyes, never letting on, to her or anyone else- never allowing the faintest crack to appear in his icy façade.

To all outward appearances, Draco Malfoy showed no remorse whatsoever for having wronged Hermione Granger so grievously, nor did he show even the faintest interest in her any longer. No one knew, or even guessed, the extent of the agonies he suffered. For he suffered in silence, as was his way.

If he had any small consolation, it was only that Hermione had reacted to his attack just as he had hoped she would; she held her head high and on the rare occasions when their eyes met, hers were just as guardedly cool as his own. The Slytherins soon gave up taunting her about the breakup, because she did not present herself as an easy target. Her calm aloofness and absolute refusal to be baited by them caused them to quickly lose interest.

And his father (if indeed he had been behind Blaise's attack on Hermione, as Draco suspected he had been) would lose interest as well, as soon as word reached him, as Draco was confident it would, about the breakup and the fact that he and Hermione no longer shared any feelings for each other whatsoever save a deep and mutual loathing. Oh yes, his father would hear, all right; there was not a doubt in Draco's mind that at least one of his former housemates was on his father's payroll as an informant; probably Blaise, but if not him, someone else. Some Slytherin or other would be, even now, preparing to make a very interesting report indeed to Lucius Malfoy concerning the abrupt and violent termination of his son's relationship with Hermione Granger.

And Lucius, after his initial disappointment, would have to give up on Hermione and set his mind to finding new ways of tormenting his son.

Draco would endure any pain he had to, just so long as he could sleep at night knowing she was safe- safe from the Slytherins, safe from his father. And now he could. His actions had seen to that.

Or so he thought.

How terribly, terribly wrong he was.

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(A/N: A quick thank you to all my reviewers. Even though I rarely thank people by name, I want all of you to know how very much your reviews mean to me! They really brighten my day; both the ones from my faithful reviewers whose names I can count on to pop up again and again like old friends, and all the recent ones from people who've come out of the woodwork to say, yeah, we've been with you all along; just now letting you know! That's awesome, as one tends to forget that more people actually do read than review. A really nice feeling to be reminded. So- thanks, one and all!

Anyway, as for next chapter- will Draco's protective measures work? Well, I think the last line of this one pretty much answers that question.)


	8. Chapter 8: Taken

Blaise turned away from the fireplace, shaking his head in puzzlement. The Slytherin common room was deserted, it being the middle of the night; the fire was burning low, casting long, flickering shadows across the room, and Blaise had just concluded yet another floo conference with Lucius Malfoy. His employer must be mental, he thought- not that it mattered much to him, as long as Lucius was inclined to keep paying him. Just so long as those sleek Malfoy owls kept arriving with little sacks of galleons tied to their legs, Lucius could be just as mental as he liked.

And it wasn't as though Blaise was complaining; tonight, at any rate, he had been very pleasantly surprised by Lucius' reaction to his news; news he had been putting off delivering because he had considered it disastrous, and had been extremely apprehensive about his employer's reaction to it. He had waited, in fact, a good two weeks since the breakup to make this report, hoping against hope that the situation would somehow remedy itself; that Draco and the mudblood would somehow find it within themselves to kiss and make up before he was compelled to tell his employer that all their carefully laid plans had come to naught; that attempting to capture Draco using Hermione as bait would be a futile exercise, since the school's former golden couple now appeared to hate each other with a passion. Draco would never come after the mudblood, because she no longer meant anything to him.

And yet-

When he had told Lucius this, his employer had seemed absurdly pleased by the news.

A slow, maniacal grin had spread across the face that Blaise had expected to contort with rage. Lucius had asked eagerly for details of the breakup; who had taken the initiative? And when Blaise had recounted that it had been Draco who had broken it off, and in a cruel and publicly humiliating manner no less, and that it looked as though reconciliation was out of the question, Lucius had laughed outright. The expression on his face, bizarre under the circumstances, had been one of mingled triumph and glee.

He had then informed an astonished Blaise that, knowing his son as he did, he was confident that Draco, through these actions, had just proved- unintentionally, of course- how very much he DID care for the mudblood. He had perceived Blaise's attack on her as a very serious threat, and a threat somehow connected to himself; he had been correct on both counts- and so he had severed ties with her in an attempt to remove her from harm's way. It was the exact reaction Lucius had been hoping for; he would have been disappointed with any other.

He had then informed Blaise that the way he saw it, the final stage of the plan was ready to be enacted, and would be put into motion the following night. He didn't anticipate needing Blaise's assistance with this portion of the plan, but nonetheless an owl would be dispatched immediately bearing a generous sum of galleons, should Blaise agree to keep himself alert throughout the night in question, just in case he should be called upon to act.

Blaise had of course agreed instantly. The only thing better than being paid by Lucius Malfoy was being paid by Lucius Malfoy for doing nothing! So tomorrow night instead of sleeping he would sit awake in the common room, studying by the fire. He didn't mind this one bit; Blaise was one of those people who posses the rare and enviable ability to thrive on very little sleep, and anyway, he had a lot of preparation to do for his NEWTs. He might just as likely have sat the night up studying anyway; now he would be some two hundred galleons the richer for it.

That was just fine with him.

So after going over with Lucius, one final time, the coordinates for the portkey that would transport its creator directly into the head girl's bedroom- coordinates he had obtained with the use of his new invisibility cloak one night as Hermione had cried herself to sleep in Harry's bed- Blaise had been released from the conference by his employer, feeling better than he had in two weeks. As he headed off toward his dorm, relief swept over him at the knowledge that the information he had been so afraid to impart had, in fact, been just what Lucius had been hoping to hear. This was followed by a feeling of immense sarisfaction; both the traitor and the uppity mudblood bitch were about to get their just desserts, and he, Blaise, had the satisfaction of knowing that he had helped to bring it about.

Not only that, but he had been paid handsomely to do it!

Yes, life was good.

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Heart pounding in his ears, Draco sat straight up in bed, his left hand shooting out reflexively to grab his wand off the nightstand. It was pitch-black; the very dead of night, and he had no idea what had awakened him. Something was wrong, though. He could feel it; he KNEW it. Something was very, very wrong.

"Lumos," he whispered, then held his softly glowing wand aloft and quickly scanned his bedroom, looking for anything out of the ordinary; any clue to his sudden awakening. But all was as it should be.

It must have been Hermione, he decided a moment later; nightmares again. It was far from the first time since their breakup that he had been awakened by her cries; it had happened several times, in fact, since she had moved out of the boys' dormitory and back into her own room a little over a week earlier. (Indeed, it had been the return of the nightmares that had caused her to finally leave Ron and Harry's dorm, though of course Draco didn't know this. Apparently with the new stress that had been added to her life, even the strengthened sleep potion she had been taking had lost its potency; she had been horrified the night she'd awakened Harry and Ron, plus every other occupant of the room, with her frantic screams. She had managed to convince them, as she had clung trembling to Ron while Harry had rubbed her back soothingly, that it was a one-time, stress-induced occurrence, and had moved back into her own room the following day.)

It ripped Draco up inside that he could no longer go to her, hold her, comfort her. A couple of times he had actually gotten as far as her bedroom door before forcing himself to turn around and go back to bed, trying desperately to ignore the sound of her heart-wrenching sobs. He wished she would tell Potter and Weasley what was happening to her at night, so that one or both of them could be on alert to offer her the comfort he no longer could; but so far she had said nothing to them, as evidenced by the fact that they did not come. No one came anymore when she cried out in the night; she was left alone to sob herself back to sleep, or to lie awake until morning.

Telling Potter and Weasley himself was out of the question, of course; he could barely be in the same room as the two of them without fearing for his life; actually approaching them and broaching the subject of Hermione would be suicide.

He sighed and raked his right hand through his sleep-tousled hair, still gripping his wand tightly with his left. Nightmares again, that's all it was- and not a damn thing he could do about it. Best just to try to go back to sleep. But then why did he still have this sick sense of foreboding down in his gut? Why wasn't it going away? It was not rational; it was deep and ingrained; an instinctual red alert that was blaring, _DANGER- DANGER- DANGER!_

And then he heard it; a sound, coming from Hermione's room, all right, but it was not one of her panicked, nightmare-induced screams. This sound was, in its implications, much, much worse. A dull, heavy thud, as of a trunk or large piece of furniture being overturned, followed by a voice- a male voice- low and menacing and chillingly familiar.

"It can't be," Draco said, not realizing, in his intense horror, that he had actually spoken aloud. His throat felt suddenly very dry and tight. "No. It can't be. No. No."

In one fluid movement he had thrown off the covers and was out of bed and sprinting for the door. He burst through it, crossed the hallway that separated his room from Hermione's at a dead run, and flung himself at her door; his right hand going to the knob as he slammed his shoulder into the stout wood. The door shuddered violently in its frame, but it held. Moreover, the knob promptly burned his hand, causing him to jerk it back with a cry. From within the room, he heard a burst of low, vicious laughter. There was no longer any doubt in his mind as to whose voice that was.

He had known from the first time he'd heard it, really; he just hadn't wanted to believe.

His father was in there with Hermione.

Panic swept over him.

"Fuck!" he shouted, in mingled fear and frustration. He backed up and threw himself at the door again, thudding into it with all his weight behind his shoulder, but again it held. It shouldn't have been able to withstand two such assaults, and it sure as hell shouldn't have burned him; it had been enchanted.

"FUCK!" he cried again. "HERMIONE!" More evil laughter from within, but not a sound from Hermione. Why wasn't she calling out to him? Was she unconscious? Worse? Oh, God………….

_Get a hold of yourself,_ his mind screamed. _Brute force isn't gonna do jack shit in this situation, so you need to think clearly!_ He closed his eyes for a second and took a deep, steadying breath. _Right then. Okay. Can't break the door down- gotta- gotta fight magic with magic. _

"Alohomora," he said in a cracked voice, placing the tip of his wand against the red-hot door handle. Nothing happened. "No," he whispered, "ALOHOMORA!" as tears of frustration sprang to his eyes. Nothing. He racked his brain, then shouted "Reducto!" in an attempt to magically blast the door out of his way. Still nothing. Losing his fragile control, he kicked savagely at the door. "Hermione!"

From within the room, he heard two voices- one male, one female- shout two different spells at the same time; this was followed by another crash, this time as of glass breaking, and a cry from Hermione that could have been fear, or pain. Or both.

Well, at least now he knew she was alive and conscious, but still- this was So. Fucking. Not. Good. And why the hell wasn't she answering him? If he could hear her, then surely she could hear him too.

"Bloody, bloody hell," Draco swore frantically. He HAD to see what was going on. Even if it was going to take him a minute to figure out what to do about the door, still he needed to SEE-

"Transparo!" he shouted, pointing his wand at the center of the door. And then, quite suddenly, he could see. Straight through the door and into the room beyond. The heavy wooden door now had the appearance of thick brown glass, with wood-grain patterns still running through it. The room on the other side of it appeared distorted, but pressing his face against the surface of the newly transparent door, he could see well enough to tell what was happening.

Lucius and Hermione were facing each other across her bed, wands trained on one another. At the foot of the bed, her trunk was overturned, spilling its contents out across the floor- the heavy thud he had heard from his bedroom. Lucius was standing at ease; completely unruffled in his crisp black robes, not a hair out of place, a smirk playing about his lips as he held his wand steadily, almost carelessly, pointed at Hermione. Hermione was a different story. She was positioned in a half crouch, looking for all the world like a trapped animal, eyes wide and chest heaving as she literally panted with fear. Behind her, the curtains of her large bay window were billowing inwards; he realized that the window was broken- the sound of shattering glass he had heard. Her dark hair was blowing wildly about her head, buffeted by the wind, and Draco was fleetingly surprised to see that she was wearing a badly rumpled school uniform. He realized with a sudden pang that she must have been sleeping in it and wondered if she had done that often since the breakup.

"Stupefy," Lucius drawled in a bored voice, as Draco looked on helplessly.

"Protego!" Hermione cried a fraction of a second later, deflecting the jet of red light from her assailant's wand.

"HERMIONE!" Draco cried, slamming the flats of both hands against the door, wincing as his burned hand exploded with pain.

Her head jerked toward him, her eyes widening still further with the shock of suddenly seeing him there,

through the transparent door. Their gazes locked for a heartbeat, and then her eyes narrowed, blazing suddenly with a fierce light of defiance, and he realized then that she had heard him calling to her all along, and had made a very deliberate decision not to answer him. Her expression in that split second told him that even now, in this desperate situation, she wanted no part of him.

And- he couldn't help it- it stung. _Of all the times,_ he thought, _to be so bloody fucking stubborn- here I was thinking she could be DEAD-_

And then catastrophe struck, in the form of Lucius taking advantage of her momentary distraction. Just as she was beginning to turn back to face him, he shouted, "Accio!" catching her completely off-guard and causing her wand to fly from her hand into his.

There was a pause as a triumphant smile twisted Lucius' thin lips- then things happened very fast. Now pointing both wands at Hermione, he said "Stupefy" again in a lazy sort of voice, clearly convinced of his victory. In the same instant, though, Hermione dove out of the way, causing the jets of light from the wands to fly right out the open window. She hit the floor, rolled, scrambled to her feet, and without a second's hesitation raced straight toward the door, and Draco.

"NO!" he yelled frantically; "don't touch the-" but it was too late. Her hand closed around the doorknob for just a fraction of a second; then she yanked it back with a cry. She stumbled backward from the door, bent momentarily double from the pain in her burned right hand, which she was clasping with her left. She raised her head and stared at him; her eyes huge and dark in a pale face surrounded by tangled, windswept hair, and there was no more defiance in them; only a sort of blank, uncomprehending shock that broke his heart into a thousand tiny pieces.

And then Lucius' arms wrapped around her from behind like a vice; pinning her own arms tightly against her body and effectively immobilizing her, and he was grinning at Draco over her shoulder; a cold, malicious, gloating sort of grin.

"Why, thank you, son," Lucius drawled out; "if you hadn't distracted the little mudblood for me, I don't think I could have caught her."

As Draco watched, stricken to the core by his father's mocking words, Lucius very slowly and deliberately raised both the wands he held until the tips hovered a bare inch from Hermione's temple. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and when she opened them again a second later, staring once more directly at Draco, he saw they now held dull resignation; her eyes said that she fully expected to die right then, right there.

Her breath was coming in shallow, rapid bursts, her whole body tense as she braced herself for the killing curse that Draco could tell she was expecting. A single fat tear spilled down her cheek. Behind her, Lucius' grin widened still further as he watched his son standing pressed against the door, trembling from head to foot with barely controlled panic, anguish written all over his normally guarded face.

"So," Lucius said conversationally, "so. Here we are. Did you honestly think you could reject your family and everything we raised you to stand for, to BE, and never suffer any consequences? Did you, Draco?" He shook his head slowly in mock woe. "Tsk, tsk, son. I knew you were a fool when you betrayed our cause- when you betrayed ME- but I didn't think you were _that_ big of a fool. It appears I was mistaken."

Draco, jaw clenched, made no reply. He merely balled his hands into fists, ignoring the fresh burst of agony in his burned hand.

Lucius, who had apparently been hoping for a verbal response, frowned. When next he spoke, his voice was brisk; businesslike. His eyes were cold and hard. "Well, Draco, if you have any parting words for your little mudblood girlfriend, I suggest you speak them now."

Draco attempted to speak, found he could not, due to a severely constricted throat, swallowed convulsively, and tried again. His voice, when it came, was a hoarse whisper, and though his eyes remained locked on Hermione's, his words were addressed to Lucius.

"Father…don't."

Lucius' maniacal grin reappeared. Quite suddenly, he jammed the tips of the two wands hard into Hermione's temple, causing her to tilt her head to the side with a jerk and a gasp. She bit her lip hard.

"NO!" Draco shouted, pounding both fists on the door.

"Oh yes," Lucius hissed, and then, "Stupefy!"

There was a brief flash of red light and Hermione went limp in his arms, her head falling forward, hair spilling across her face.

On the other side of the door, Draco sagged as well, leaning his forehead against the translucent wood as a wave of overwhelming relief swept over him. He let his own eyes fall momentarily shut, drawing in a deep, ragged breath. He hadn't been expecting his father to stun Hermione. He had been expecting him to- to-

"Why, Draco," Lucius said, his voice tauntingly gentle- Draco's eyes snapped open once again and he stared unblinkingly at his father- "you didn't actually think I would kill her, did you? I assure you, she is worth much more to me alive than dead- at the moment. You see, I fully expect her to accomplish a task that I myself cannot; she's going to bring you home. Miss Granger and I will be catching a portkey back to the manor very shortly, and then, of course, you will be following us. Won't you, boy?"

Again he paused, waiting for a reply; again he got none. His lips thinned into a hard line, suggesting that Draco was definitely trying his patience. "You WILL come home, Draco, if you want to see the mudblood again. I understand that you may have to find a way around that wily old bastard Dumbledore; he will surely try to prevent you- so I will give you three days, which I think is most generous. You have my word that if you come to the manor within three days, you will find her alive. I cannot, however, promise that she will be unharmed. The longer you delay, the worse her condition will be when you arrive, so I would recommend you come as quickly as you can. Delay past three days-" he wound his hand through Hermione's thick hair and jerked her head back up so that it rested against his shoulder, then drew the tip of his wand slowly across her throat. "Do I make myself clear?"

A sudden, powerful surge of bright, hot rage engulfed Draco, but with a conscious effort he suppressed it in the next instant, out of fear for Hermione's safety. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat and dead.

"You don't have to take her. Lay her back on the bed, open the door, and I'll come with you right now."

"You've no idea how I wish it were that simple, Draco," Lucius said, the regret in his voice too highly pronounced to be entirely believable, "but unfortunately, that would be quite impossible. You see, Dumbledore has you carrying a charm that would render me Stupefied if I were to set foot in the same room as you within this castle. So it is your beloved headmaster's fault that I must take the girl instead of you. I trust you'll take that up with him after I've gone. Speaking of which-" he reached into a pocket of his robes and drew out a small, ornately crafted hand-held mirror- Draco recognized his father's favorite foe glass- "the man in question is nearly here." Sure enough, Draco could hear the pounding of footsteps approaching rapidly.

Lucius slipped the foe glass back into his pocket, and when his hand reemerged he was holding something else; a small silver shoehorn which Draco knew was one of Malfoy Manor's many return portkeys, guaranteed to whisk its bearer back to the front gates of the manor from anywhere in the world at a word. He laid one end of it against Hermione's pale cheek- it needed to be touching her too, after all, in order to transport her along with him.

"You want her back, you know where to find her. As a gesture of good faith, I won't even cast her into the dungeon. I think I'll put her in your old bedroom- that's a quaint touch, don't you agree? I'll be expecting you, son- remember, three days."

"No!" Draco shouted, panic rising in him like a tide. He backed away from the door and hurled himself at it again- knowing rationally that it was no use- not caring- he couldn't just stand there and do nothing as his father vanished with the only person in the world he loved more than his own life, he had to TRY-

"Activate," Lucius said softly. There was a brief flash of blue light and then he and Hermione were gone. In the same instant Draco hit the door, which burst inward, spilling him into the now empty room. He stumbled and fell to his knees in the place where Hermione had been a fraction of a second before.

"No," he whispered despairingly, raising his hands to cover his face as Dumbledore, accompanied by McGonagall and Snape, raced into the room behind him. "Oh God, Hermione, no. Oh no."


	9. Chapter 9: Three Days in Hell Begin

(A/N: Okay- let the true angst begin! I'm not sure there's really a need for this warning; after all, this is an R-rated angst fic and I've been telling you all along that things would get bad, but for the sake of being conscientious, I will now state that this is the first of two consecutive chapters in which some Very Bad Things will happen to Hermione. I know, I know- didn't the poor girl go through enough in YGB? Well, what can I say…I'm twisted. Actually, from this chapter on, some really horrible things will be happening to all four main characters; not a single one of them will come through unscathed and, as long as I'm on the topic, this is as good a time as any to say that one of them won't come through at all. I'm hereby issuing an official Character Death warning.)

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Feeling a comforting hand clasp his shoulder from behind, Draco snarled and jerked away, whirling about and regaining his feet in one startlingly fast motion. He leapt backward and then stood breathing hard, fists clenched, pale hair spilling forward as he surveyed the three adults before him with slitted, feral eyes.

He looked from Snape, whose hand it had been, to McGonagall, who appeared paralyzed by horror, only her eyes moving as she stared about the room, and finally to Dumbledore, who was looking very grave indeed.

Draco's narrowed eyes kindled with rage.

"He didn't want her," he spat out; "he came for me, he wanted ME! And I'd have gone with him in a heartbeat to protect her- but no, he couldn't have me, could he? He couldn't have me even though I OFFERED to go with him so he took her and it's all YOUR BLOODY FUCKING FAULT!"

"Draco-" Dumbledore began, but Draco was in no mood to be placated.

"No!" he cried, his voice cracking with despair; "No! I won't listen- I don't want to hear- I hate you- I HATE YOU!" and he ran for the door, shoving Snape violently aside when he attempted to restrain him.

He ran without any conscious thought whatsoever as to where he was going, but his feet led him surely down his and Hermione's short private hallway, through the common room where the fire had burnt down to embers, up the spiral staircase that led to all the boys' dormitories, and through the door of the seventh-year dorm, slamming it open so hard that it crashed back against the wall with an almighty bang.

Without consciously realizing what he was doing, he sought aid from the one source he trusted in light of what he saw as Dumbledore's treachery- the two people he knew would be as determined to recover Hermione as he was; Harry and Ron.

"Potter! Weasley!" he shouted hoarsely, "Up! Get the fuck up NOW!"

Harry and Ron didn't need telling twice. Both were out of bed in a matter of seconds, and flung themselves on Draco, fists flying. Awakened from a sound sleep to find Draco yelling in their room, they were disoriented, alarmed, and completely lacking in the inhibitions that governed their behavior during the day. As a result they immediately fell to doing what they had both longed to do for weeks; beating the crap out of Draco.

For his part, Draco made no attempt to defend himself or to resist in any way. He actually welcomed the pain; he felt he deserved it, for one thing- he had failed to protect the girl he loved and if his father had his way, she would end up paying for that failure with her life. For another thing, he was simply so deeply distraught that he half hoped they would beat him senseless- it would be a good way to stop the images that were now running incessantly through his mind; horrendous images of the things his father might be doing to Hermione at that very moment.

Yes, Draco would surely have welcomed oblivion.

However, it was not to be.

McGonagall and Snape burst through the door at that moment, firing off impedimenta charms to halt the fight, and pulling the boys apart.

"Potter! Weasley!" Professor McGonagall snapped, tight-lipped, as Snape glared at them, "this is appalling. Matters are serious enough already; I will not have you compounding them by- by- brawling!"

Harry immediately went very, very still. Years of being the central figure in the fight against Voldemort had taught him to recognize instantly when a situation was bad- and judging from the actions and expressions of all those who had come bursting into his room, he was facing a very bad situation indeed. He looked from Draco to McGonagall to Snape to Dumbledore, who had just appeared in the doorway, and realized who was missing. His heart plummeted.

"Hermione," he said.

Ron, who had also been taking in Dumbledore's arrival, a puzzled expression on his face, now turned on Draco once again, his dark blue eyes narrowing dangerously.

"You miserable, slimy bastard," he hissed, "What have you done?" And he attempted to launch himself at Draco again, only to be brought up short by Snape, who placed himself swiftly between the two boys. "ENOUGH!" he roared, glaring daggers at Ron. As always, he would protect the boy he loved as a son.

"And you," he added, as his baleful glare swept the room, fixing Dean, Seamus, and Neville in turn- they were, of course, all awake and watching the proceedings with acute interest- "go back to sleep."

(As if that would be possible.)

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Mister Potter, Mister Weasley, Mister Malfoy, you will follow me to my office, please. A very grave situation has arisen, the details of which, Harry and Ron, you will be apprised of once there. We have much to discuss.

A despairing glance passed between Harry and Ron. _Please don't let her be dead,_ they each were praying silently; _anything- anything but that. Just please God, don't let her be dead._

Without further discussion, they, along with Draco, Snape and McGonagall, followed the headmaster from the room.

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Lucius arrived, with Hermione still clasped to his chest, just outside the front gate of Malfoy Manor. In the distance he could see the ancient gray stone manor house, sitting impressively upon a small rise, set well back from the gate before which he stood. No portkey could carry him closer to the house than he was right now, nor could he apparate to any point inside these grounds. The manor was protected in much the same way Hogwarts castle was- better protected in fact, since portkeys could be used within the Hogwarts grounds, but not within the grounds of his home.

He began to walk up the long drive to the manor, floating Hermione's limp form before him at wandpoint. Reaching the house, he commanded the trembling, prostrating house elf that met him at the front door to find his wife and request that she join him in Draco's bedroom. As the elf scurried off in frantic haste to do his bidding, he levitated Hermione up the stairs to the second floor, down a long hallway, around a corner and into Draco's wing.

He passed Draco's recreation room, Draco's library, two lavish guest suites that had always been reserved exclusively for the use of Draco's friends- usually Crabbe and Goyle, though he remembered that the Parkinson girl had occupied one of them for the entire summer following Draco's fourth year at Hogwarts, sending Narcissa into transports of delight (no one could tell this, of course, but he himself, who knew his wife so well- to all others, including Draco, she had merely seemed slightly less aloof than usual); Pansy Parkinson was neither the prettiest nor the brightest girl their son had displayed an interest in, but her pedigree was impeccable; it had been a very desirable match. The following year, when Draco had broken up with Pansy, neither he nor Narcissa had been unduly worried- boys will be boys, they had thought; he was just sowing his wild oats, they had thought. Draco had always been, overall, a sensible boy and a dutiful son. He would get it out of his system, realize the sense of the match with Parkinson, and reclaim her before leaving Hogwarts; they had been sure of it. Narcissa had even been in the early stages of planning the wedding, to take place out in the rose garden, the summer after Draco's seventh year. Then this- this mudblood filth had come along and ripped their family apart; had taken that dutiful boy and turned him into a traitor. There would be no wedding now; now his son had to die.

He finally reached the largest and grandest room in the wing; Draco's bedroom, easily spanning a thousand square feet. Situated as it was at the end of the wing, three of its gray stone walls boasted magnificent floor-to-ceiling leaded glass windows, hung with heavy green velvet drapes. Placed at intervals between the windows were a massive wardrobe of ancient, dark wood, two bookcases crammed with books- Draco's absolute favorites, the ones he couldn't be bothered to walk down the hall to his library for- a writing desk, and a glass door leading out to a wide stone balcony overlooking the swimming pool. (Draco had used to dive off that balcony directly into the pool- he'd been six years old the first time he'd tried it; frightened his mother nearly to death. The house elf that had been charged with looking after him that day had been given clothes. After being beaten to within an inch of her miserable little life, of course.) On the last wall, the only one that didn't have windows, the same wall in which the door was situated, were two splendid green marble fireplaces flanking a massive wrought iron canopy bed, which was hung with dark green silk curtains.

It was at the foot of this bed that Lucius dropped Hermione, and with a flick of his wand caused a heavy leather collar to appear around her neck, attached to a chain which he anchored to the nearest bedpost. The chain was several feet long- long enough to allow her plenty of movement, but just short enough to prevent her from reaching either the bedroom door or that balcony door. Couldn't have her taking a page out of Draco's book, diving into the swimming pool and then running off into the night. Couldn't have that at all.

At just that moment, Narcissa swept regally into the room and stared down her long, aristocratic nose at the girl lying in an ungainly heap on the floor.

"So this is the little Gryffindor tramp, is it?" she asked coldly, nudging Hermione's inert form with her foot. "This is the girl who stole our son?"

"The very same."

Narcissa looked hard at him, distaste written plainly on her face. "Lucius, dear- are you SURE you got the right one?"

"Judging by Draco's reaction, quite sure, my love," Lucius drawled.

"Ugh." Narcissa's eyes returned to Hermione. "I never would have thought that a child of ours would display such appallingly poor taste. I might have understood if she was a beauty, but to betray us for this- this-" she seemed incapable of finding a word strong enough to adequately convey her disgust. "I mean, good Lord, will you look at her HAIR!"

She glanced back at her husband, but if she had been expecting him to agree with her, she was disappointed. He too was looking down at Hermione, but there was no disgust evident in his face, just a cool sort of appraisal. She almost felt a moment's pity for the girl- _almost_- because she knew that Lucius was speculating on the best ways in which to torment the child…and pleasure himself in the process.

She sighed. Lucius was going to put the mudblood through her paces, all right- she was quite sure of that. So why bother fighting the inevitable? And after all, it wasn't as though she didn't have quite a few little playthings of her own.

"Break her, darling," she murmured, laying a hand on her husband's arm. "For what she did to our family, to our son- break her. You have my full permission to use _whatever_ means necessary." And she stalked out of the room without a backward glance.

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Lucius stared after his departing wife with something akin to reverence. That was one hell of a woman he had married- his perfect match, his life mate. What man could ask for more? She had just as much as ordered him to have his way with the pretty little schoolgirl (for he did consider her pretty- not beautiful, like his wife, but pretty enough for a mudblood) who lay sprawled on his son's bedroom floor- and he intended to obey her. Oh, yes. A smile twisted his thin lips. God, how he loved his wife.

He really should go and tell her so, before getting down the business of torturing the mudblood into insanity.

But first-

Narcissa's comment about Hermione's hair had given him an idea. He walked into the bathroom that adjoined Draco's bedroom, returning a moment later with a hairbrush in his hand. Caught between the bristles of the brush were dozens of silky, baby-fine strands of silver hair; Draco's hair. He stared for a moment between the brush and Hermione, his eyes glittering. Oh, this was going to be such fun.

Then he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, locking the door securely behind him. He had a date with his wife, followed by a visit to his potions lab…and then he had a date with Hermione- a date that would last for three days.

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"Ennervate."

Hermione blinked, then squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the light. She was lying in a band of sunlight, bright, yet not warm, on what felt like a cold, hard floor. She was completely disoriented.

"On your feet, mudblood," drawled a cold voice, and, in a state of shock, she felt herself being hauled upward by something- some sort of _collar_- around her neck. Suddenly, everything came flooding back as she was deposited roughly on her feet- but her mind, recoiling in horror from her current situation, refused to do anything but repeat, over and over again, _this isn't happening- it can't be. It's a nightmare and I'm going to wake up. This isn't happening- it can't be. It's a nightmare and I HAVE to WAKE UP!_

No such luck, however. She swayed on her feet and stumbled backward into something tall, cold and hard. The post of a massive canopy bed. She stared around the room as her vision, and mind, slowly cleared. As she raised her hand to the heavy leather band about her neck (there was a chain attached to it, she realized, anchoring her to the same bedpost she had fallen against), her wide eyes settled on the man standing before her, sneering down at her with a hungry gleam in his eyes.

This was bad. Oh, this was so bad.

There was no way out of this. Her ever practical nature would not allow her to sustain false hope. She was going to be tortured, and she was going to be killed. And all because- here was the really ironic part- this monster standing in front of her thought that doing so would hurt Draco. She knew better. And she found that she was glad, for the first time, that Draco no longer loved her- that he would be unaffected by her death. Not only because it meant that Lucius would be denied the satisfaction of bringing his son low, but also because she found that she disliked the thought of Draco grieving for her- she disliked the thought of him in pain.

Because, goddamn it, she loved him still.

But she couldn't dwell on Draco right now. She had to focus on the present. She found, much as Harry had once upon a time when facing Voldemort in a cemetery with Cedric's dead body at his feet, that accepting death as inevitable was oddly freeing; it freed her from her fear. She sucked in a deep breath and stood a little straighter. No, she was not afraid anymore, come what may. She would not cower before this sorry excuse for a human being. She would not give him that satisfaction.

Lucius stepped very close to her. "Well, mudblood," he drawled, "I trust you know who I am? I've certainly heard a lot about _YOU_- and I have to admit, I'm somewhat puzzled as to what the attraction is. You managed to turn my son against everything he was raised to believe in, by all accounts you are stringing along the great Harry Potter and his pathetic sidekick Weasley as well (_unfair!_ her mind cried indignantly), and even the Dark Lord-the previous Dark Lord- saw fit to sully himself with you. I intend to discover-" his eyes raked her body lewdly- (_don't flinch,_ she thought desperately;_ it's what he wants- do not give him that pleasure!_) "whether all the fuss is justified."

Seizing the chain that issued from her collar, he gave her a sharp yank, causing her to stumble forward. She just barely managed to stop herself short of falling against him. They were nearly nose-to-nose as he murmured, "I received a very detailed account of my predecessor's- _encounter_, shall we say?- with you…and of your little act of defiance at the end. I want to make it known right now that I will brook no such insolence. Do I make myself clear?"

Her jaw tightened. Lucius' eyes flashed. "I said, _do I make myself clear?_"

"Perfectly," she ground out, then, just as the very beginnings of a triumphant sneer touched his lips, she spat full in his face.

It was different from when she had done it to Voldemort. She had barely been conscious then, and certainly not thinking rationally. This, she did deliberately and with the knowledge that there would be hell to pay- but she was going to suffer anyway, so it would be worth it to suffer perhaps a little more, in order to see the expression on his face.

Which was everything she had hoped it would be, in the split second his guard was down. Anger, revulsion, and above all, utter disbelieving shock that she- that ANYONE- would _dare_ do this to him.

He raised a hand slowly to his face and touched his wet cheek, as if unable to comprehend that her saliva, on his skin, was actually real, was actually there. Then he backhanded her with his other hand, so fast and hard that she was caught totally off-guard; she had never seen it coming, bent as she had been on studying his face.

Her head snapped to the side with such force that she nearly fell- but she caught herself. (_I won't fall, I WON'T!) _She turned slowly back toward her captor, an angry red blotch already marring the side of her face. There were tears of pain standing in her eyes from the slap, yet she radiated not fear or defeat, but rage and defiance. "Go to hell," she whispered.

"Oh, I rather think not," Lucius replied- he seemed to have recovered his composure, though there was a hard, angry glint in his eyes which had not been there before. "That would entail dying, you see, which is something I have no intention of doing. Ever. You, on the other hand, well-" he reached out and traced the line of her jaw with a long, aristocratic finger, watching the disgust flare in her eyes- "You die in three days, whether Draco comes for you or not. I think a good little girl like you is probably destined for heaven-" he said the word with patent distaste- "your unfortunate spitting habit notwithstanding- but fear not; I'll give you a taste of hell before you go."

"I'm not afraid of you," she said, and judging by her expression, it was true. Certainly she had been afraid back in her bedroom, but she seemed beyond that now. Her expression was one of hatred, and perhaps an underlying despair- but there was no fear in it.

Lucius surveyed her thoughtfully. "You know, I do believe you speak the truth," he said slowly. "You're _NOT _afraid of me." He shrugged. "Fortunately, I do not require that you fear me. Merely that you bleed, scream, and beg for mercy. And make no mistake, by the time I am through with you, you will have done all three in abundance."

She tilted her head defiantly. "I didn't scream for Voldemort," she said, with a feeling of immense satisfaction as Lucius flinched, however slightly, at the name of his former master, "and I won't scream for you."

Lucius' eyes glinted. "I do so like a challenge," he said, and pointed his wand at her. "Crucio!"

It was pain such as she would never have believed existed.

He only lifted the curse once she had screamed her throat raw.

She couldn't help it; there was no way to hold back her cries- not in the face of agony such as this.

"You see, poppet," Lucius murmured, almost tenderly, hunkering down next to where she lay, gasping, on the floor (_how did I get down here?_ she thought disjointedly; _wasn't I just standing up? Hadn't I resolved to keep my feet, no matter what?_) "My predecessor never used the Cruciatus on you. Everyone screams under Cruciatus; everyone."

"Draco didn't," she whispered hoarsely, still defiant.

"Oh, didn't he?" Lucius asked, in a tone of mild curiosity. "That's good to know. I suppose it means that all the time and effort I put into disciplining him when he was younger paid off- to some extent, anyway. At least it wasn't a complete waste. It will be most interesting to see if I can break through that discipline when he arrives. Yes, I shall look forward to that immensely."

Hermione, in the process of pushing herself slowly and painfully into a sitting position, snorted derisively. "Then you will be immensely disappointed," she said flatly. "Draco's not going to come after me."

"You really don't think so, do you?" Lucius asked, surveying her keenly. Then he shrugged. "Ah well, time will tell. But for now- our fun has only just begun. So let's get on with it, shall we?"

He dragged her to her feet by her collar again, then, with a flick of his wand and a word, she found herself shackled at the foot of the bed; her arms stretched straight up, chains running from her wrists to the canopy bar high above her.

_Oh, God. Not good not good not good at all._

She was facing toward the bed, her knees bumping against the edge of the mattress, so that Lucius was free to come up right behind her. He did so, reaching around from behind and beginning to undo the buttons on her rumpled white uniform blouse as she struggled to hold back the tears that wanted to flood from her eyes. She squeezed them tightly shut and clenched her jaw- _I won't cry, I won't cry, I WON'T- _but her breath was already beginning to hitch in her throat. She swallowed hard, choking back a sob and Lucius finished with the buttons and moved to unclasp her bra.

_Think of something else,_ she told herself desperately, as, with a touch of his wand, Lucius vanished both shirt and bra entirely, and his hands began to roam freely, roughly, possessively over her body. _I'm not here, not here at all, I'm with Draco, he still loves me, we're- we're in Hogsmeade drinking butterbeer- oh God oh God, I can't take this, I can't go through this again, I'd rather die!_

"Quite the stoic little mudblood, aren't we?" Lucius murmured in her ear, for despite her frantic thoughts, she had managed to retain some outward semblance of calm; she had not burst into tears- not yet. _Not EVER,_ she thought fiercely; _I don't CARE what he does to me- I won't cry!_

Her tormentor took a step back, his hands finally leaving her body. "So," he remarked conversationally, "you seemed quite impressed that Draco can endure Cruciatus without screaming. It _IS_ rather a remarkable feat, and I take the credit for it. Here's something else for you to ponder over the next few minutes; Draco never screamed during this, either. In fact, he counted."

_Counted?_ her mind cried, on the verge of hysterics- _counted what? What did Draco count! _She tried to twist her head around to see Lucius behind her, but could not.

No matter- her question was answered a bare second later when a whip lashed across her back with terrific force. A ragged cry was wrenched from her lips; she couldn't hold it back. She felt Lucius' fingers trace the stinging welt on her back and sucked in a sharp breath through her clenched teeth; a second later, he had reached around in front her again and was holding his hand up before her face. She saw that his fingertips were crimson with her blood.

"You see," he whispered, "as satisfying as the Cruciatus is for inflicting pain, it fails to produce any blood. So I find myself resorting to other methods because, poppet-" his tongue flicked out and licked at her ear, causing her to shudder with revulsion- "I _love_ blood. Even mudblood, like yours. So-" he pulled back again, and his voice took on a brisk tone- "Draco counted past a hundred and fifty one time, if memory serves- let's see what you can do."

Not one to back down from a challenge, she counted.

And the whip came down again. And again. And again. She lost count, and consciousness, somewhere in the thirties.


	10. Chapter 10: Horrified Beyond Belief

(A/N: Disturbing content ahead………)

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She came back to awareness slowly, reluctantly, her body screaming in protest against the treatment it was receiving. Between the Cruciatus Curse and the brutal whipping, and the fact that she was still shackled to the canopy bar of the bed, her entire weight dangling from her wrists high above her head, searing agony seemed to have invaded every inch of her being.

Forcing her eyes open, the first thing she saw was that she had been turned so that her back was to the bed and she now faced the rest of the room. The second thing she saw was Lucius Malfoy, seated in a straight backed chair beside a desk- (_Draco's desk_, she thought detachedly; though Lucius had not said so in as many words, she had a strong suspicion that this room which had become, to her, a combination prison cell and torture chamber, had in fact been her lover's bedroom)- watching her intently.

He had removed his robes, and his shirt as well; clad only in black breeches tucked into black dragonhide boots, he was now bare from the waist up, just as she was. And he was splattered from head to foot with blood. Her blood, she realized, with a queasy flip of her stomach.

"Well, hello, sleeping beauty," he drawled.

Uncoiling himself from the chair with a lithe grace that was so reminiscent of the way Draco moved it caused her breath to catch painfully in her throat, he made his way toward her with slow deliberation. Despite a concerted effort to black out again, Hermione found to her dismay that she was still conscious when he reached her.

"So poppet," he breathed, stopping directly in front of her, "are you ready for the _REALLY_ fun part?"

For a fraction of a second, Hermione's face contorted with disgust, but in the next instant she had mastered herself and closed her face to all expressions save purest loathing. When she spoke, her voice was dull; emotionless. "Do what you want- you can't hurt me, not really. Maybe physically, but not in any way that matters. So just get it over with. I don't care."

She had thought that this would take some of the wind out of his sails, but strangely, her words seemed to have the opposite effect; he appeared absurdly pleased by them. A slow, sadistic smile twisted his lips. "You have no idea how I had hoped you would say something like that, mudblood."

She felt her stomach clench around a sudden, cold knot of fear. This was not right, not right at all. Something bad must be coming, worse than she had ever imagined, something so so so so bad…………..

Lucius took a half-step backward, reaching into a pocket of his trousers as he did so. Never breaking eye contact, still with that cruel smile playing about his lips, he pulled out a small, ornately embossed silver flask, yanked the stopper out with his teeth, and downed the contents in a single swallow, blanching for just a second as he did so.

For a moment, nothing happened, except that he threw the now empty flask aside. Hermione was utterly bewildered. The only thought that came to her mind was, _I hope he chokes on it, whatever it is._

Then, to her further puzzlement, he winked at her- and turned away. That was when the change began. Hermione's eyes widened as she realized what was happening, and her lips formed the word _NO, _seemingly of their own volition, though no sound actually came out. There was no sound she could make that could begin to express the horror she felt as she watched the man before her transform.

Because she knew who he was turning into.

She could see it, even with his back to her. The long, thin hair like spidersilk shortening, thickening, only the silver blond color- that color that was no color- remaining the same; The back and shoulders broadening, the hips narrowing further, the body, which had been merely slender before, taking on the toned musculature of youth and Quidditch training.

She knew every inch of this new body by sight, by touch, by scent, by taste. "No," she whispered, unable to help herself, horrified beyond belief. "Oh, no. No."

And Draco turned to face her, smirking, his pale eyes glittering with malicious glee. "What's the matter, mudblood?" he drawled (in the same voice that had once whispered in her ear that she was perfect; a goddess- the same voice that had so often comforted her as she cried in the night). "Aren't you happy to see me?"

"No," she choked out, completely panicked, forgetting her resolve to show no emotion. She hadn't been counting on this- Lucius she could deal with but Draco- (_it's NOT Draco!_)- Draco was something else entirely. She lost her head completely and began to struggle desperately against her bonds as he crossed the distance between them with one purposeful stride, unable to regain her self-control even though she saw in his eyes that he was basking in her panic- absolutely reveling in it.

"NO!" she cried again, her voice cracking, as his hands went to her waist, then began stroking up and down her sides, caressing her almost lovingly. "Not Draco, not like this- oh God, PLEASE not like this!"

He smiled down at her- Draco's smile. "You see, poppet, I told you you'd beg," murmured Draco's voice. And, removing both hands from where they had been resting on the swell of her hips, he quite suddenly raked his nails- Draco's neatly trimmed nails- down her already torn and bloody back.

A shriek of pure anguish was ripped from her, and he was ready; the second she opened her mouth, he captured it in a brutal, crushing kiss; a kiss of ownership, greedily drinking in her scream as her body, in a frantic attempt to escape the pain of his hands on her back, thrust itself forward, pressing into his.

"Well, aren't you the forward one?" he taunted a moment later, breaking the kiss.

Tears were streaming down her face; there was no controlling them, not anymore. The floodgates had been opened and she couldn't close them again, not in the face of this. She was overwhelmed; she couldn't take this, not that it should be Draco doing these things to her- (_it's not Draco it's not Draco it's not it's NOT!_)- she must surely go mad.

He dipped his head then, his mouth finding the hollow at the base of her throat, licking, biting, sucking, bruising, _marking_ her, as she gave a great, shuddery gasp of pain. At the same time, he raised his wand and, with a flick of his wrist, caused the shackles about her wrists to disappear. Suddenly unsupported, she fell backward onto the bed.

The pain in her back when it hit the mattress was so great that her vision darkened around the edges and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt- fleetingly, she prayed that she would pass out, but it didn't happen. (_Oh God, can't you grant me even that small mercy?_) When her vision cleared, she was met with the sight of Draco (_Lucius! Not Draco!_) leering down at her as she sprawled on the bed.

"Is that an invitation, mudblood?" he drawled. And without waiting for an answer, lowered himself onto her.

She tried to struggle, but it was no use; her body was leaden from all the time she had spent hanging from her wrists, and refused to obey her. She could do nothing but stare up into that familiar face, the soft, fair hair that spilled forward over his brow, those eyes that she knew and loved- still loved, even now, even now.

Eyes that held only hatred, and triumph, and lust.

She shook her head mutely, tears continuing to flow unchecked down her face.

"Why, whatever is the matter, poppet?" Lucius asked, in an almost gentle voice, only his eyes- Draco's pale eyes- gleaming with wicked delight. "You know," he added, in a confidential tone, "I do believe I'm beginning to see what all the fuss is about. You are a _very_ pretty girl- even when you cry. Especially when you cry." Using his knees, he drove her legs far apart, and his hands found the pleated fabric of her uniform skirt, started to tear at it, then stopped. "I think I'll leave the skirt," he murmured thoughtfully, more to himself than to her; "I rather like its effect." Instead of ripping it off, he merely shoved it out of the way.

She squeezed her eyes shut, and tensed for the assault she knew was coming. _This isn't happening, _she though numbly, even as her body braced itself for the inevitable_- it can't be, it's just too unfair, I've gone through this once, once was enough, I can't again, oh God, what did I ever do to deserve this, not once but twice- what, what did I DO? _

"Someone help me," she whispered in a tiny, lost voice, completely unaware that she was speaking aloud, that her words were sweet music to her tormentor's ears. "I can't…take this…again. Not…as Draco- not like this. Please, not like- AAAUUGGH!"

The ragged scream was torn from her throat as he invaded her body, and her eyes flew open again, in shock, just as he bent his head and claimed her in another bruising, torturous kiss.

00000

For Lucius, it was like heaven on earth. For what must have been the hundredth time, he was grateful for his wife's insistence that he keep a vat of polyjuice potion bubbling constantly at the ready in a corner of his potions lab- it was, she had pointed out, an extremely valuable asset for any aspiring Dark Lord to have on hand. Taking on Draco's appearance- seeing the mudblood's reaction to his change- it made the rape even more enjoyable than it would otherwise have been. And greater still than the pleasure the mudblood's tortured body was giving him was the satisfaction that came from the knowledge of how his traitorous son would react if he knew what was occurring. If Draco had been able to witness this scene, Lucius knew, his reaction would be nothing short of raging, howling, bestial madness. It was at that moment that Lucius decided that Draco must, indeed, witness this; he would create a pensieve of this day that he could force Draco to look into when he arrived. He had no doubt that seeing his son's reaction to the rape would bring him more pleasure even than the act itself.

00000

He left her lying sprawled across the foot of the bed, semiconscious, the blood from the lashes on her back soaking into the silken bedclothes beneath her, her eyes open yet glazed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

She continued to lie that way for a long, long time after he had closed and locked the door, smirking, heading off to his own palatial chamber to wash her "muddy blood" off himself.

Finally, after a good twenty minutes or so, she blinked, seeming to come back to herself, and gave a low, despairing groan. Slowly, she drew her arms in against her body and began to lever herself up onto her elbows, sucking in a harsh breath through gritted teeth as her back peeled painfully off of the comforter, to which it had become glued by her drying blood.

Her wounds now bleeding freely again and staining her brown hair crimson where it lay, damp and sweaty, against her back, she looked around the room with wide, dazed eyes, as if this were the last place she had expected to find herself, as though she had somehow thought that with that single blink, she should have awakened back in her room at Hogwarts, all of this no more than a particularly vivid nightmare, and Draco bursting through the door to comfort her.

Now, as she stared about herself, realizing that this place- and the things that had happened to her in it- were undeniably real, a single sob was wrenched from her throat, the sound of it echoing through the large room. Before more sobs could follow, however, she pressed a hand to her stomach- (she was still wearing her pleated uniform skirt, she realized detachedly- her pleated skirt, and nothing else)- as a powerful wave of nausea engulfed her. She just barely managed to throw herself halfway over the side of the bed, and was violently sick onto the floor.

She retched herself dry, then pushed herself a few inches back from the edge of the bed with shaking arms, and curled tightly into a fetal position. She felt completely drained; so exhausted and empty that she could no longer even find tears to shed. "It wasn't Draco," she whispered, letting her eyes fall closed.

She had already known, of course, that it hadn't been Draco- had known it from the start. Lucius hadn't made any secret of his identity; he hadn't gone out of his way to pretend to be Draco; he hadn't needed to. He had correctly surmised that taking on his son's appearance, forcing her to look up into Draco's eyes as he tortured and raped her, forcing her to listen to Draco's voice call her a filthy mudblood, forcing her to see that look of twisted lust and triumph on the face she loved- STILL loved, despite everything- would be torment enough for one day.

Yes, she knew it had been Lucius- he had drunk the potion in front of her, for Christ's sake- but still- she shuddered violently- it had been Draco's eyes, his voice, his hands- oh God, his HANDS!

So it bore repeating. "It wasn't Draco," she whispered again, frantically. "It wasn't- he wouldn't- he'd never- he may not love me anymore, but he'd never do _that!_ It wasn't…it…wasn't…"

Her voice trailed away as finally, mercifully, darkness claimed her.

00000

"Disgusting girl," said a cold voice, dripping with contempt.

Hermione reluctantly forced her eyes open, meeting the pale blue gaze of Narcissa Malfoy. She knew immediately who she was looking at; she had seen Narcissa once before, in the top box at the Quidditch World Cup, years ago. Though she recognized her, she didn't speak. What on Earth was she supposed to say? _Oh hello, Mrs. Malfoy, what a lovely home you have. It's so nice to meet you- no no, really, the pleasure is mine! We've never been formally introduced, but my name is Hermione Granger and I'm in love with your son- may I call you mum? What's that? Your husband? Oh, I've already had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Malfoy- yes, he was in here just a little while ago- charming man, such a witty conversationalist, I'd have to say the highlight of our little chat was when he TRANSFORMED INTO DRACO AND RAPED ME! _

Hmm…no, that wouldn't do. But on the plus side, she seemed to be thinking somewhat clearly again. She glanced past Narcissa, at the nearest window, and saw that it was now dark outside; day one in hell was over. Just two more to go. Then she would either be rescued, or killed. She was fully anticipating death- if Lucius expected Draco to come after her, then the joke would be on him. Draco didn't care. (_Doesn't he?_ A corner of her mind whispered rebelliously; _he sure looked like he cared last night.) _No, she thought firmly, Draco didn't care- there was no point in deluding herself- but maybe Harry and Ron would find a way to come- it somehow didn't seem so criminal anymore to allow herself to indulge in fantasies of rescue- it was a good escape from reality…in any case, she found that at this point she barely cared whether her captivity ended in rescue or in death, just so long as it _ended_. Either one meant release- one way or the other.

Her attention was drawn back to Narcissa, who was speaking again. "Vile little creature," she spat, staring daggers at Hermione, "lying here in your own filth, defiling my son's bed, making a mess of my floors."

Hermione stared up at her for a long moment, processing the utter, blatant injustice of this statement. As if she had made a mess on purpose. The bed hadn't been defiled- SHE had been defiled ON the bed- there was a world of difference. Finally, she whispered just one word;

"How?"

Narcissa's eyes narrowed. "How, what?" she snapped.

"How can you say that, knowing what he did to me? And incidentally, how could you have let him do it?"

A slow smirk spread over Narcissa's face. Hermione thought distantly, in that realm of her mind that was clear and removed from the pain of her body, that this had to be_ THE_ smirkingest family on earth.

"You think I should have put a stop to it," the ice-blonde woman hissed, "just because I'm his wife?"

"No," Hermione said, "not because you're his wife; simply because you're a woman."

Narcissa appeared momentarily taken aback by this. Her eyes widened marginally and for just a fraction of a second something seemed to flicker behind them- some unidentifiable emotion quickly masked. In the next instant, however, her eyes flashed, and her lips tightened, with rage.

"Are you suggesting that you and I share some sort of kinship merely because we are both female? Well let me tell you, mudblood, I am nothing like you, and if you think I feel any sympathy for you whatsoever, you are sorely mistaken. You stole my only child away, and there is no punishment too severe for that crime. You deserve _everything_ my husband gives you, and ten times more as well." She whipped her wand out of her robes and leveled it at Hermione. "Crucio!"

Narcissa's Cruciatus Curse was every bit as potent as her husband's. Hermione convulsed, screaming, and fell off the edge of the bed (thankfully missing the nearby puddle of vomit, though she wouldn't have noticed at that point if she had fallen straight into it.) She was being burned, stabbed, sliced, ripped apart, all at once as she writhed on the floor. Narcissa kept the wand on her until she had screamed herself hoarse (fortunately, this took very little time, strained as her voice already was from her earlier Cruciatus session with Lucius), then pocketed it again and swept from the room without another word or a backward glance, leaving Hermione gasping in her wake.

00000

An indeterminate time later- it was still dark out- two house elves came sidling into the room. Hermione was slumped against the side of the bed, in a half-sitting, half-lying position. After Narcissa had left, she had attempted to pull herself back up onto the bed, using the corner post as a support, but had lacked the strength to successfully do so, collapsing instead against it, crying weakly.

By the time the elves arrived, she had long since run out of tears, and had lapsed into a fevered semiconscious state. She was shaking violently when the little servants found her, her teeth chattering, her breath shallow, rapid, hitching. She was both freezing cold and burning up; her body wracked by chills, her temperature perilously high.

At first, both elves ignored her as they scurried about the room cleaning it, scouring away the blood and the sick and all evidence of the atrocities that had taken place there the previous day- all evidence except for Hermione herself, of course. They gave her a wide berth, neither touching nor looking directly at her, managing, through the use of their household magic, even to strip and remake the bed she was leaning against without disturbing her.

As they went about their business, though, the smaller of the two elves found herself stealing furtive glances at the clearly sick and injured, half-naked girl on the floor. Unlike the rest of Malfoy Manor's elves, who were the products of generations of service to the family, this particular elf had been acquired only recently, as a replacement for Dobby. As a result, she was not yet entirely cowed by her masters, as the other elves were. Where her companion was completely indifferent to Hermione, seeming to look right through her without even registering her existence, the newest elf, known as Hanni, felt a rising surge of pity for the girl, who was now tossing her head and repeatedly whispering the name "Draco", apparently delirious.

As the other elf busied herself about the room, therefore, Hanni crept into the adjacent bathroom and returned with a glass of water and a cool, dampened hand towel. Bending over Hermione, she pressed the towel to the suffering girl's forehead and held the glass against her dry, slightly parted lips, tipping some of the liquid down her throat. At first, Hermione spluttered and choked, but then her dark eyes fixed on Hanni and she drank the rest of the water down thirstily.

"Th-thank you," she croaked.

"You is most welcome, miss," Hanni murmured, setting the glass down beside Hermione. "Is there anything else Hanni can do to help you, miss?"

"Draco," Hermione whispered, but her eyes were losing their focus and the elf couldn't tell whether this was a request, or merely the return of the delirium. Before she could question Hermione further, her companion, alerted by the sound of voices, had rushed to her side, positively quivering with fear and anger.

'Hanni, you is a bad elf!" she hissed vehemently; "you is going to get us beaten if master finds out! You is going to get us _clothes!_" And she seized Hanni and pulled her out of the room, causing the damp towel and empty glass to vanish with a backward glance and a snap of her fingers. _SHE_ was a good elf; _she_ knew her duty. She would see to it that Hanni was not allowed to clean this room again. Master had made it very clear that though she occupied a bedroom, rather than a dungeon cell, the girl was a prisoner- not a guest.

She was to receive no aid from anyone.

00000

"Rise and shine, mudblood. It's time to play."

Hermione slowly forced her eyes open. She had slid over sideways in the night, after the house-elves' visit, until she was lying flat on the floor near the foot of the bed. She realized distantly that she was fevered, shaking with cold, hurt everywhere, and she was staring up now at Lucius Malfoy, who was standing over her with a grin on his face and his wand leveled at her heart.

"Oh, no," she whispered.

"Lucius' grin widened. "Crucio."

Day two in hell had begun.

After only a couple of hours, Lucius vanished the collar and chain from about her neck, as it was patently obvious that she was no longer in any condition to attempt an escape.

Throughout that day, and the following night, and the next morning, the torture continued. As time progressed, she spent less and less of it in a conscious state, but from what she could tell during her increasingly brief periods of awareness, she spent roughly equal amounts of time on the floor, writhing under the Curicatus Curse, dangling from her wrists while being whipped raw, and on the bed being brutally raped.

During much of the time, Lucius retained his own appearance- but always, he raped her as Draco.


	11. Chapter 11: An Uneasy Truce

"This is all your bloody fucking fault, Malfoy!"

"I fucking KNOW THAT!"

Draco pounded his fist into the wall, bare inches from Ron's head. The two boys glared at each other for a moment in furious silence before spinning on their respective heels and resuming their frantic pacing about the perimeter of the room.

They were in the Gryffindor common room, which was deserted but for the three of them, due in part to the fact that it was a Hogsmeade Saturday, and in (much larger) part to the fact that Draco was looking dangerously unbalanced and the abrupt shouting matches between him and Ron had been going on for quite a while now and were becoming more frequent and more potentially violent as time wore on. The first and second year students, though too young to visit the village, had nevertheless made themselves scarce, terrified by the seventh year boys who were prowling the common room like caged beasts.

Which was, for all intents and purposes, exactly what they were.

The silver-blond and the redhead were pacing opposing tracks around the edge of the room, glaring murderously at each other whenever their paths crossed, both occasionally kicking at a piece of furniture or punching the wall. As for Harry, he was standing perfectly still in front of the fireplace, which contained no fire at the moment, it being near noon on a sunny May day. His back was to the room and his head was resting face-down on his arms, which were folded on the mantle. Shoulders hunched, face hidden from view, he was the very picture of abject despair.

Hermione had been missing now for over two days. This was, in fact, late afternoon on the final day of the three that Lucius had given Draco, and if Dumbledore and the Order had any plans for Hermione's rescue, they had not shared them with the boys. Harry, Ron and Draco had been confined to Gryffindor Tower by the placement of magical wards at the portrait hole, in order to prevent them from sneaking off the grounds and apparating away- as they were all now seventeen, they had learned apparition earlier in the year. All floo access to Gryffindor Tower had been cut off. Even their broomsticks had been confiscated, so that they wouldn't simply fly out of a window.

Their inability to act was tormenting all three of them. The tension between Ron and Draco, born of their mutual desperation, hopelessness and rage, was nearing the breaking point. It was bound to boil over very soon.

And it did.

Quite suddenly, from the opposite side of the room, Ron rounded on Draco.

"God-fucking-damn it, Malfoy, you rat bastard," he shouted, his eyes so dark a blue with anger that they were nearly black, his voice cracking with emotion; "if she had never fallen in love with you she never would have been a target! You probably knew the whole bloody time that she was in danger just by being with you, but you didn't care. You used her anyway and then you threw her away because you _never_ cared what would happen when you were done with her. You've never cared about ANYTHING but your own worthless fucking hide!"

"You have no clue how bloody much I care, Weasel," Draco said, his voice so low it was barely audible- and all the more frightening for that. "I told you once before I'd excuse you saying something stupid because I knew how you felt about her- and the same goes for now. But this is your last fucking chance. Say one more thing and so help me God, you are going to get hurt."

But Ron was well past caring whether or not he got hurt. "You _never_ deserved her, Malfoy," he spat; "never."

And Draco astonished him by saying simply, "I know."

The two boys stared at each other across the room, breathing hard. Then, with lightning speed, Draco whipped out his wand and leveled it at Ron's chest. "I know," he repeated, "but even so, I warned you to keep your mouth shut, Weasley."

Ron dove to the side as Draco fired a spell at the place where he'd been standing. He hit the floor, rolled, and came up with his wand pointed steadily right back at Draco.

Swearing under his breath, Harry spun around and surveyed the two opponents, looking from one to the other, speaking to neither. He could think of no words to say to fend off the vicious duel he knew was coming. His mind was too clouded by the helpless grief he felt for Hermione; he was sinking in it, drowning.

As for Ron and Draco, they were screwing up their nerve. There could be no backing down now. Ron's eyes narrowed dangerously; Draco shook back his silver-fine hair, which had fallen forward over his brow. The tension mounted and the silence between them, broken only by their panting breath, spiraled out and out. At any second now, the room would explode into violence. The tension was far too great; it _had _to be released; this was the only way. Any second now…

Then-

Pop!

The silence in the room was broken by a sudden, loud noise, accompanied by a flash of blue light, but its source was neither Draco nor Ron. Its source, to the complete, unmitigated shock of all three boys, was a tiny female house elf who had just appeared in the middle of the room, clad in a pillowcase, clutching what appeared to be an egg cup tightly to her chest. She had appeared directly in the line of fire between Draco and Ron and, glancing from one drawn wand to the other with bulging eyes, she gave a terrified squeak and dove behind the nearest armchair, dropping her egg cup in the process.

Slowly, warily, Ron and Draco lowered their wands and all three boys advanced on the armchair, from behind which were coming small, muffled whimpers of fear. Harry reached her first and hunkered down before her. She peered at him for a moment from between her fingers, then slowly lowered her shaking hands from her face.

"You is Harry Potter," she whispered; "yes, you is. Hanni knows you. You freed Dobby."

"That's right," Harry said, his tone conveying only mild surprise, though in fact what he was feeling was more akin to deep shock. "Do you know Dobby?"

The elf shook her head. "No, sir, but- but Hanni has heard all about him. Hanni replaced Dobby, you see."

Harry paused for a moment, processing this information. There was something about what the elf had just said that was important- monumental, even- but try as he might, he just couldn't make the connection. His mind was too clouded by misery and despair; he wasn't thinking clearly.

It was Draco whose eyes widened in realization, who sucked in a sharp breath and, shoving Harry aside, went down on one knee in front of the elf, at the same time seizing her roughly by the shoulders and hauling her onto her feet so that their faces were level, inches apart.

"You replaced Dobby? So you come from the manor- Malfoy Manor?"

"Yes, Master Draco," the elf whispered, trembling from head to foot.

"Hermione! Is she there? Is she alive?"

"Yes, Master Draco," the elf repeated, in a barely audible voice.

Draco's entire body seemed to sag momentarily with relief as he expelled a long, shaking breath. He ducked his head, face scrunched as if in pain, and quickly pressed a hand to his forehead, shading his eyes from view. Harry and Ron could only see the line of his jaw, tightly clenched, as waves of relief swept over them as well. Ron, who had been the only one still standing, fell heavily into the armchair.

"Is she-" Draco swallowed hard. He was still looking down, eyes hidden. "Is she hurt?"

"Yes, Master Draco," the elf nearly sobbed; "yes, miss is…is hurt bad."

Draco's hand, where if rested against his forehead, clenched into a fist and a low groan of primal, almost animal pain escaped his throat. In the armchair, Ron dropped his head forward into his hands. Harry abruptly sprang up from where he had been crouching and began pacing the room just as Draco and Ron had been doing prior to Hanni's arrival, hands clenching and unclenching, green eyes glittering with angry, helpless tears.

Hanni stared for a moment at each boy in turn, then returning her attention to Draco, continued, "M-master said that no-one should help miss, but Hanni f-felt so sorry for her. Hanni asked if there was anything she could do. The only thing miss said was Master Draco's name. Hanni th-thought that miss might only be delirious-"

"Delirious?" Draco interjected sharply; "what do you mean, delirious? Is she sick?"

The elf nodded miserably.

"She's hurt AND sick? How sick?"

"V-very sick. She is b-burning up with fever."

A string of curses burst forth from Draco's mouth, so loud and long and spectacularly obscene that the nervous little creature cowered away from him, throwing her arms up to shield her face again, until, with great difficulty, Draco managed to regain some semblance of control over himself.

"Okay," he said, in a brittle voice of forced calm, "okay. You said she- she was asking for me?"

The elf nodded, peeking through her fingers before warily lowering her hands. "M-many times," she whispered. "She was v-very badly off. Hanni thought it was just delirium. But the more Hanni thought about it, the more she thought that maybe miss was trying to give a message- so Hanni came to find Master Draco."

"Oh God," Draco moaned, scrubbing the back of one hand hard across his eyes. He was seeing again the look of defiance on Hermione's face when she had spotted him through the door of her bedroom as she faced down his father, and then- far worse- her expression of blank, uncomprehending shock as Lucius had seized her from behind, her eyes wide, hurt, confused, silently begging the question, _why is this happening to me?_

And now she was hurt, and sick, and calling out for him, and he couldn't get to her and GODDAMN IT, it was ripping him apart!

"God, what did that bastard do to her?"

The elf said nothing; she seemed to be hoping that the question had been rhetorical, rather than literal (she could imagine only too well how he would react if she were forced to give a detailed answer), and perhaps it was, because Draco didn't pursue it. Instead he said, through clenched teeth, "how long ago did you speak with her? This morning? Last night?"

"The night before," Hanni whispered.

"THE NIGHT BEFORE? And you've only just come now?" Draco looked as though it were taking every single bit of self-control he possessed not to knock the little creature clear across the room.

Actually, had he been in a calmer state of mind, with less at stake than Hermione's life, he might have marveled at just how quickly Hanni HAD gathered her courage and come. House elves are not hasty creatures when it comes to disobeying their masters. In fact, only an extraordinary house elf would defy its master at all, no matter what the cause. For most house elves, the question of right versus wrong was simple; right was what their master said was right, and wrong was what their master said was wrong. It was astonishing enough that Hanni should take it upon herself to decide that Lucius' treatment of Hermione was wrong in the first place. And then- that she should decide to defy Lucius' orders and seek help for the girl by going to Draco- it was unheard of. Well, almost unheard of. There had been Dobby, her predecessor, after all, who had warned Harry of danger at Hogwarts- but it had taken him months to screw up his courage to do so. The fact that Hanni had managed to accomplish a similar feat after only two days of fierce inner debate was, for a house elf, incredible. Really, she was to be applauded.

Draco was not, however, contemplating any of this at the moment. The pressing question on his mind was, if Hermione had been in such terrible condition two nights ago, what kind of state must she be in now? Just thinking this drove home to him, full force, his utter helplessness- and despairing, his dropped his face into his hands. Two nights ago Hermione had been sick and hurt…by now she was probably just about dead. And he could do nothing. Nothing.

"Why did you come to me, elf?" he choked out. "What were you hoping I'd do?"

"Hanni…never presumed to…hope Master Draco would do anything," the elf squeaked, plainly terrified that she had done wrong in coming and was about to be lit into; "Hanni just thought…Master Draco ought to know. Hanni will…will be going now…"

"NO!" shouted all three boys in unison.

"No," Draco said again, more quietly. "Look, I'm not angry with you. I just- I want to help, but I- goddamn it, I'm fucking- TRAPPED!"

With this last word, he leapt to his feet, kicked over the chair next to Ron's, hurled himself at the nearest wall, and commenced pounding his head against it.

"Bloody hell! MALFOY!" Harry dove after him and dragged him, cursing and struggling, away from the wall, as Ron looked on in amazement. Draco was clearly determined to finish what he had started; to wit, beating himself into oblivion.

Ron shook his head as he watched Harry and Draco grapple- (he still wasn't ready to accept that Draco might actually be deeply affected by Hermione's kidnapping)- then turned his attention back to the quaking little house elf. Having grown up in an old, pure-blooded wizarding family, he knew a thing or two about house elves, though the Weasleys had never actually owned one. And this particular elf's behavior didn't jibe with what he knew about the creatures in general. For one thing, there was the question of-

"How were you able to leave your master and come to Draco," he asked the elf suspiciously, "if you didn't receive permission to do so?"

"H-Hanni is bound to Master Draco too," the elf squeaked, "because he is part of the family. Hanni doesn't need one family member's permission to visit another."

Ron's brow creased in puzzlement. "But- Draco's not a member of the family anymore. He was disowned- wasn't he?"

Now the elf took on a rather sly expression. "Master and Mistress have told the servants that Master Draco is not their son no more," she said, "but they haven't removed him from the family documents yet- Hanni knows. Hanni checked. Master Draco is still on the family tree- so he is still a Malfoy and Hanni is still bound to him. Hanni can come see Master Draco any time she wants, until his name goes off that tree!"

There was a touch of defiance to her high-pitched voice now; she knew perfectly well, it seemed, that she was operating through the use of a loophole; obeying the letter, though in this case definitely not the spirit, of the law. Ron grinned despite himself. Lucius would probably skin her alive if he found out what she had done- and she must know that- but she had come anyway. This elf had spunk, and that was a rare thing.

"How did you get here, then?" he asked her curiously. "I mean, not only to Hogwarts, but right here to this room?"

"Hanni b-borrowed Master's Hogwarts portkey," she whispered, looking suitably chagrined at this admission of what amounted to outright theft. "It's that egg cup over there. It's set to transport Master Lucius straight to the school's front steps, but Hanni invoked her own magic to travel a little farther; to the room where Master Draco was. A house elf can do that, sir, because the bond between the elf and the family she serves is so strong-"

But Ron had stopped listening a sentence ago. His eyes were now fixed on the egg cup that lay a few feet away on the floor, half underneath the chair Draco had recently kicked over. He held up a hand now to silence the little creature, who was still babbling on about the finer points of house elf magic.

"Wait a minute," he said, in an oddly tight voice. "Back- back up just a bit. That egg cup- you said it will take a person to the front steps of this school?"

"y-yes, sir," said the elf, looking uncertain.

Ron's eyes now left the egg cup and fixed on hers intently. "Will it work from anywhere? Will it work from HERE?"

"It should work from anywhere at all," Hanni said.

"Holy shit," Ron breathed, his eyes going again to the portkey, then, "HOLY SHIT!" as he leapt to his feet so suddenly that he upset the chair in which he had been sitting. There was now no longer a single chair left upright in the room.

"Harry," he shouted to his best friend, who, along with Draco, was staring at him in open-mouthed shock, "get your invisibility cloak! We're going after her! NOW!"

"What?" Harry asked blankly.

"Get your goddamned cloak!" Ron cried; "Harry, now! We've got to go before we lose this chance!" He snatched the egg cup off the floor. "This portkey, when activated, will take us to the front steps of the school. If we can get to the edge of the grounds, we can apparate. COME ON, WE HAVE TO GO!"

Harry, and Draco as well, were staring from Ron to the egg cup to the elf and back again. Then, without another word, Harry turned and ran flat-out up the stairs toward the boys' dorms, presumably to get his cloak.

As for Draco, he shook his head slowly, as if coming up out of a deep daze, then crossed the room to drop to one knee in front of Hanni.

"You have bound yourself to me over my father today, you realize that, elf?" he asked tersely.

She nodded, trembling.

"Good. As your new master I expect my commands to be followed without question or hesitation." Another nod. "I deem it extremely unsafe for you to return to the manor at this point, so what I want you to do right now is find the school kitchens and ask for Dobby. Tell him that you are now my personal elf at Hogwarts, but that unless you are given specific instructions by me, your job is to assist him, and the other school elves, in whatever manner he sees fit. You will stay with Dobby until you hear from me again. Do you understand?"

"per-perfectly, master Draco," the elf stuttered, staring at him in wide-eyed wonder and the beginnings of deep devotion; seeming unable to believe her luck. "B-but master- what are you going to do?"

Draco stood up then, and locked gazes with Ron as he answered, "I am going to get Hermione back."

"The hell you are!" Ron shouted, looking positively murderous.

"The hell I'm not," Draco replied softly, and then, still not looking at her, added to Hanni, "go on, elf. Get yourself to the kitchens. Now."

The house elf vanished with a squeak, leaving the two boys still staring daggers at each other.

"You're not coming, Malfoy," Ron said flatly.

"You're not stopping me, Weasley. If you try, then one of us will most likely end up dead."

Ron stared at him for a long, silent moment, before suddenly exploding, in bewildered frustration, "Why are you doing this, Malfoy? Why in the hell are you acting like you care, when I bloody well know that you don't?"

Now it was Draco's turn to be silent for a minute. At length he said, in a low, almost defeated voice, "you're wrong about me, Weasley." Abruptly he ended their staring contest, turning his back on Ron and facing the wall, unable to hold the redhead's gaze as he continued. "I've never stopped loving Hermione. I love her more than life itself. I'd give up my immortal soul to have her back here, safe and unharmed. She's the first person whose well-being I ever put before my own- which is exactly why I acted as I did. See, all the way back when Zabini attacked her, I began to suspect that my father was behind it- though I couldn't figure out why. I decided that the best way to ensure her safety was to sever her connection with me- even though it almost killed me to do it. If my father was trying to hurt her as a means of hurting me, that would put a stop to it- so I thought. I tried to make it look as though I no longer cared a thing about her- hoping that this would make my father, and the Slytherins, decide that going after her was pointless."

He whirled back toward Ron, and Harry, who was now back in the common room as well, both of them staring at him, aghast. His face was a mask of self-recrimination and misery. "It obviously didn't work that way."

"You mean to tell us," Harry said slowly in a stunned voice, "that all this time…………you were just trying to protect her?"

"I failed," Draco said bitterly.

"But your intent was-"

"It doesn't bloody matter what my intent was! All that matters is that I failed her! And she's hurt and sick and calling for me, and now that I finally have a means of reaching her-" he gestured toward the egg cup Ron held- "all the demons in hell could not prevent me from using it. And neither will you! I will kill you for that portkey, Weasley, if you make me."

Ron's eyes, which had been as wide and shocked as Harry's, narrowed to blue-black slits.

"Besides," Draco continued, abruptly changing tack, "you have no choice but to bring me along. You'll never leave this room without me."

"What the hell are you on about, Malfoy?" Ron spat.

"You're holding a Malfoy portkey, Weasley," Draco replied, his voice taking on a familiar drawling quality, "and a Malfoy portkey can only be activated by a Malfoy…or a Malfoy house elf on family business. In any case, it will not work for you. Go ahead and try it, if you don't believe me. And just for argument's sake let's assume for a moment that it did work (which it won't), and you and Potter got off the school grounds, leaving me here. Just how exactly do you plan on apparating to the manor, when you've never been there and have no idea where it is? You don't even know if it's in Britain, Weasley! It could be in Transyl-fucking-vania for all you know!"

"Wouldn't surprise me," Ron muttered, but he had to admit to himself that Draco had a point. In order to successfully apparate, one had to know where one was going. Had to be able to visualize it. He grudgingly admitted that it looked as though Draco would have to come after all.

"Fine, Malfoy," he growled; "you're coming. Is there anything you need to get? Cause we really ought to be going."

Draco shook his head. "All I need's my wand. Let's get the hell out of here." Crossing to where Ron and Harry stood, he held out his hand. Slowly, reluctantly, Ron (who had been shaken to the core by Draco's admission a few minutes ago, but damned if he was going to show it) held out the egg cup. Draco did not take it from him; he merely gripped its smooth, curved edge, opposite where Ron was still holding it. Harry then reached out and clasped one hand around the narrow part in the middle. Once all three boys were touching it, Draco said "Activate," in a quiet, yet confident voice, and in a bright flash of blue, they vanished.

00000

The instant they landed on the school's front steps, Harry flung the invisibility cloak over all three of them, muttering, even as he did so, an enlarging charm so that it would offer adequate concealment for them all. It had been, after all, a long time since he, Ron and Hermione, as eleven, twelve and thirteen-year-old children, had all fit beneath it so effortlessly; now, at seventeen, with the bodies of nearly full-grown men, there was no way the cloak would have covered the three boys without some form of magical alteration.

Once they were concealed beneath it, seeing the world through the silvery shimmer of its fabric, they set off for the edge of Hogwarts' land without a single backward glance at the school. Not one of them entertained second thoughts, even for a moment; a fact that would cause much solemn reflection, in the years to come, for the two boys who would make it back to Hogwarts alive.


	12. Chapter 12: A Slight Snafu

The three boys arrived outside the manor, on the far side of the gate, having successfully apparated one and all, once Draco had clued Harry and Ron in on exactly where it was they were going.

Arriving at a place by apparition was not the same as arriving via portkey; there was no loss of balance, no ungainly stumbling or falling to the ground- at least, not under normal circumstances. This time proved to be the exception to that general rule, however- thanks entirely to Draco who, the instant the apparition was complete, seized both Harry and Ron and yanked them, hard, before they had fully gotten their bearings, to the ground.

The result was that while Draco managed to drop into a crouching position with all of his inherent grace intact, Ron and Harry both went sprawling full-out on the ground. As they pushed themselves back up to their knees a moment later, Ron was snarling and looking as though there was nothing he would have liked more in the world than to launch himself at Draco. Harry put a restraining hand on his arm which Ron, furious, shook off instantly- but it apparently got the message across nevertheless because the volatile redhead restrained himself, though not without significant visible effort, from attacking.

"Precaution," Draco whispered, without the faintest trace of remorse. "I don't know what kind of wards or protections my father may have set up out here."

Ron muttered something incoherent- and probably blessedly so. Draco, for his part, cast about on the ground for a small rock and, finding one, tossed it through the gateway, pressing himself down even closer to the ground as if expecting- well, something. Some sort of adverse reaction. But nothing happened.

"Malfoy," Harry said in a low voice.

"Yeah?" Draco cocked his silvery head slightly in Harry's direction, but all his attention still seemed fixed on the gate, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

"You said your father wanted you to come home, right?"

"S'right, Potter."

Well then- it wouldn't be too smart for him to go out of his way to make it difficult for you to do so, would it?"

Draco turned slowly, finally giving Harry his full attention.

"I mean," Harry continued, "I don't think it's getting in there we have to worry about. It's getting back out again that may be a problem."

Draco was silent for a moment, thinking this over. Then he nodded. "You're right, Potter," he muttered. "I knew I brought you along for something."

Ron gave a furious hiss. "YOU didn't bring us anywhere, Malfoy, you bloody arrogant prat, we-"

"Sh."

Surprisingly enough, it was Harry who shushed him. "Not now, Ron. Hermione, remember? Focus on Hermione. She needs us all. She needs us to work together. Nothing is more important than getting her out of here, nothing."

Ron blew out a harsh breath from between clenched teeth, clearly fighting for control. Finally he nodded, but his fingers were twitching…clearly longing to wrap themselves around Draco's throat.

"Fine," he ground out at last. "Now what?"

"I suppose now we just walk on in," Draco said thoughtfully.

The three boys stood, rearranged the cloak over themselves, stepped through the gate, and started up the incline toward the forbidding hulk of Malfoy Manor. True to Harry's prediction, they encountered no wards or protections whatsoever along the way.

00000

Standing in a dim, cavernous foyer nearly the size of the entrance hall at Hogwarts, the three boys faced each other silently under the cover of the cloak. Adrenaline was surging through all three of them; their breath came rapidly and they were all flushed to varying degrees- Ron's skin nearly matched his hair, while Draco was merely a whiter shade of pale with two bright fever spots burning high on his cheeks.

It was Draco who broke the silence, addressing Harry in a whisper. "Potter, I'm going to need this cloak to find Hermione and get her safely out. I'll need to hold onto the portkey too, in case-" he paused and swallowed hard- "in case she's not…well enough to safely apparate. Portkey wouldn't do either of you any good anyway. The two of you can apparate back."

"Wait just a ruddy minute," Ron interjected at this point. "Why the bloody hell should it be _you_ who finds Hermione? And what are Harry and I supposed to do in the mean time?"

"It should be me because this house is vast, and I know its layout," Draco responded, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world- and, really, it was. "My father told me he was going to keep her in my old bedroom- well, I know how to get there from here. Do you, Weasley?"

Ron just glared.

"It should also be me, and only me," Draco continued, "because the idea is to get her out as quickly and quietly as possible and even with an invisibility cloak, let's face it, one person is less likely to draw attention than three. Besides which- and here's the answer to your other question- I'm counting on the two of you to provide a diversion."

Harry and Ron glanced at each other, then back at Draco as he continued speaking.

"And finally, Weasley, it should be me because whether you believe it or not, I bloody well love her and I will lay down my life before I let her come to any more harm. You have my word on that. Even if you don't believe my word has any value, you have it just the same. So let's stop wasting time and get her the hell out of here!"

There was a brief but tense silence during which Draco and Ron glared fiercely at each other, doing battle with their eyes. Finally, Ron's expression softened- barely, but it did. "Bloody hell," he whispered, "I believe you, Malfoy. You still have a lot to answer for, treating her the way you did- but now isn't the time. All that matters now is getting her out of this hell hole, and if you can do it the quickest, then so be it. I'll trust you with her, though it isn't easy for me. But don't you fail her, Malfoy, don't-" he broke off, looking abruptly down and away, blinking hard.

"I failed her once," Draco murmured. "I'm not going to fail her again. I'll die first."

Ron gave a single terse nod, then, without another word, shrugged off the cloak, standing now fully visible and vulnerable in the shadowy foyer. Harry then followed suit, slipping out from the protection of the cloak as well. The two boys heard a faint rustle of material as Draco moved, then his disembodied voice floated to them from the vicinity of the stairs.

"Give me about ten minutes to find her, then create a diversion that will buy me another ten minutes or so. Then get yourselves back to the school. We'll meet up there- don't look for me again here; with any luck I'll get Hermione out quickly, quietly and invisibly. If we see each other again here, it will probably mean that…something's gone wrong, so let's hope that won't be the case." There was a slight pause, then- "don't underestimate my father. Take care of yourselves."

"You too, Malfoy," Harry responded quietly. "Take care of yourself- and Hermione. Take care of her for us."

"Will do, Potter," came Draco's response.

It was at this point that Ron spoke up, surprising all three of them, not least of all himself. "Malfoy," he called out softly.

"Yeah, Weasley?" Draco now sounded as though he were halfway up the stairs. His voice was tight, guarded.

"Be careful, all right?"

There was a pause. Then, "you too, Weasley. You too."

00000

For several seconds, Harry and Ron merely stood where Draco had left them, staring first at the stairs up which he had gone- or at least, up which it had sounded like he had gone- they hadn't actually seen him do so, of course- and then at each other.

"Right, then," Ron whispered at last. "Diversion."

"Yeah." Harry glanced around the foyer; in addition to the stairs Draco had taken, there were plenty of other routes to try. There were three large doors leading off in various directions, plus a long, dimly lit hall that appeared to terminate in an enormous, shadowy living room. Harry thought a moment longer.

"We'll go in opposite directions," he finally said. "We'll synchronize our wands into a ten-minute countdown, then wherever we are in the house when the countdown is complete, we'll both make noise. A lot of noise. Big as the house is, one of us is sure to attract the attention of its occupants. Move fast, get as far away as you can from this entrance hall before creating your diversion. We want to leave it clear for Draco to come back through once he has Hermione. That's…that's the best I can come up with on no notice. Sound good to you?"

"Nothing about this situation is good," Ron whispered grimly, "but I can't think of anything better. So what then? After we've done it? Made a great bloody lot of noise?"

"Then we get out, as fast as we can, from wherever we are. Go through a window if you have to- whatever's closest at hand. We'll meet back up beyond the gate and apparate together."

"So we're really not going to try to find Malfoy again? Help him get Hermione out?"

Harry considered, then shook his head. "No. For one thing, we don't know our way around- we'd probably just succeed in getting ourselves lost in extremely hostile territory. For another, Malfoy was right about more people attracting more attention. The last thing we want is to draw attention to him while he's bringing Hermione out. That's the whole point of this diversion thing- to draw attention _AWAY_ from him. Besides which, Ron- I trust him to get her out of here. I don't like the way he treated her any better than you do, but I believed him when he told us why he did it. Seems just like him to hit on- on THAT as a solution. He was misguided, but…I do think he still loves her. I don't think he ever stopped. And when he says he'll die before he lets her come to more harm- I think he's telling the truth."

Ron was silent for a moment, clearly thinking this over. Then he nodded, though somewhat reluctantly. "You're right," he said quietly. "You're right. But I still don't like it. I don't bloody like it at all. It's-" he abruptly turned away, wrapping his arms about himself in an oddly protective manner. "I still love her, Harry," he whispered. "As much as ever. More, I think. And knowing that she's hurt and in danger- knowing that I can't be there for her now- It's hard. It's damned hard, mate."

He felt a hand settle gently on his shoulder. "I understand," Harry murmured. "_Believe_ me when I say that I understand. And remember that what we're about to do is just as important- and just as dangerous- as what Malfoy's doing. Hermione needs us to do this. If it allows Malfoy to get her out of here safely…" he trailed off.

"I know," Ron said, shaking his head and turning back to face his best friend. "But Harry, I'm so scared. What if I never get to see her again, what if she's already-"

"She's not dead," Harry cut him off emphatically. "She's not, Ron. She's strong, she'll make it through this. We'll all make it through this. Now let's go do this thing." Without pause for thought, he pulled Ron into a quick, fierce embrace, then, releasing him just as abruptly, turned and made for the nearest door.

Behind him, Ron headed off down the short hallway toward the huge, gloomy living room beyond. Just before they passed out of one another's sight they paused, turned back toward each other, and synchronized their wands. Then they were moving away from one another just as quickly as they could while still maintaining any measure of stealth.

_She WILL make it through this,_ Harry was repeating to himself, attempting to fight off the horrible feeling of foreboding that was growing like a cancer deep in his gut. _We all will. We all will._

How wrong he was. And even as he repeated those three words over and over like a mantra, deep down, he sensed it.

00000

Draco's feet slowed as he neared his bedroom. He had been moving quickly through the enormous house- not running, exactly, but moving as fast as he could while keeping relatively silent, and he knew that time was of the essence- but he couldn't help slowing down now; he was so damn scared of what he would find on the other side of that large, dark, imposing door.

"Please don't be dead," he whispered in a cracked voice as he approached the closed door, feeling as though he were swimming through air as thick as water. Feeling dread sitting low in his gut; a large, cold, heavy ball. "Oh God, please- my bookworm- my brown eyed girl- please don't be dead."

And then he was reaching for the handle- watching his hand rise toward the polished gold- and yes, it _WAS_ pure gold- knob with a numb, detached sense of horror, fearing the worst as he tried the handle, found it to be locked, laid the tip of his wand against it, whispered "Alohomora," heard the soft, yet distinct click that meant the spell had worked, turned the knob, and pushed open the door.

And sagged against the doorframe, nearly falling to his knees, so overcome was he by grief at the sight that met his eyes.

"Mione," he choked out, and his vision started to blacken around the edges; for it looked, from the doorway, as though his worst fears were confirmed. Shaking his head to clear it, he pushed himself bodily away from the door and stumbled toward the woman he loved, unclasping the invisibility cloak and letting it slip to the floor as he went.

"No," he croaked, reaching her. "Please, no."

She was dangling by her wrists from the canopy bar at the foot of the bed. She was suspended high off the floor; her wrists actually bound to the canopy bar itself, rather than suspended from it by a length of chain as she had been in the past. Her bare feet, though grazing the edge of the mattress, were not supporting her; her knees were bent, her body completely limp, supported only by the cuffs on her wrists. She was facing away from the bed, away from the door; away from him as he had entered the room; her head was bowed forward, hair spilling across her face, and as she was clad only in her pleated uniform skirt, he could clearly see the dozens of lashes that criss-crossed every inch of her back.

Her back was scarlet with blood.

Climbing onto the bed, he stood close behind her and with a flick of his wand vanished the cuffs that connected her to the canopy bar, catching her easily as she fell backward into him without a sound, without a sign of life, her wrists still bound to one another though no longer to the bed. He turned her in his arms so that as he eased her down onto the mattress, she was lying face-down, allowing him access to her bloodied, ruined back.

He gave a sick moan, though he was not consciously aware of doing so. The sight of her like this- there was no worse torture, no worse pain he could feel- it was his darkest nightmare come true.

It also brought back vivid memories of a thousand, thousand lashes he had borne himself- by rights, he should be covered in scars just like the ones that now marred the once flawless skin of the woman he loved. It was only thanks to his mother that he wasn't- she had vanished his scars, always, at monthly intervals when he was a child and then later, after he had begun attending Hogwarts, at the end of every summer and Christmas holiday, just before he had returned to school. She had done it always in a brisk, matter-of-fact manner, without the slightest hint of maternal tenderness, and Draco had known, even as a very young child, that it wasn't something she did out of concern for his well-being, but rather to keep up appearances- as everything his mother did was about appearances. It would not do at all to have it discovered- especially by a meddlesome fool such as Dumbledore- that the heir to the Malfoy estate, the scion of one of the wizarding world's oldest, wealthiest, and best-known families, was covered in welts just like a common servant boy or house elf, now would it?

It had always struck him as deeply ironic that such a cold, detached woman should be gifted with such strong innate healing powers, but there it was- his mother was a born healer and to what use did she put her gifts? To the sole purpose of concealing her husband's abuse of her only child from the world at large, so as to continue to present the illusion of a perfect family. He was not grateful for it. In fact, he was and always had been rather resentful. He had bloody well earned those scars! They were the product of hours of torture- of blood, sweat and tears. Well, not so much tears. He hadn't cried as a result of his father's ministrations since he had been very, very young. But still- every time his mother had vanished the scars he had felt a perverse sense of loss. No matter, though- they were still real in his mind, every single one of them- and they always would be.

But enough dwelling on the past. He needed to focus on the here and now.

"Hermione," he whispered, smoothing her hair away from her face so that he could see her in profile, bending close over her, his hand still tangled in her thick, unkempt curls. There was no response. "Hold on, okay?" he said, over a lump in his throat, not knowing at that point whether she was even still alive, just hoping desperately; hoping against hope. "I'm here now. I'm gonna fix this, love. I'm gonna fix this and then I'm gonna kill him. I'm gonna bloody fucking kill him."

He dropped a gentle kiss on her temple, then began passing his wand slowly over her mangled back, murmuring healing spells as he went.

He wasn't able to heal the gashes that covered her back completely; it would have taken someone with Madam Pomfrey's level of expertise- or his mother's- to do that- but he was able to close them, clean the blood away, and place a pain reduction charm on her that he could only hope would work- could only hope there would be a _NEED_ for it to work, because at least that would mean she was still alive.

_Oh God please, I'm not a praying man, but please- I'll do anything, GIVE anything- just please let her still be alive!_

Slowly, carefully, he turned her onto her back, his eyes sweeping her body, registering the bruises and abrasions that covered her from head to toe. He felt tears stinging the backs of his eyes, noting the discoloration on one cheek where she had clearly been struck across the face; the purple, finger-shaped bruises on her arms, her throat, her breasts, her thighs.

"Kill-" he whispered brokenly- "kill…him…gonna…fucking…" and then trailed off, his attention arrested by something else; something that made him go weak with relief where he knelt on the bed beside her- her bare chest was rising and falling rhythmically with breath. It was so faint as to be barely noticeable, but it was there- she was breathing. She was alive.

"Sweet, merciful God. Thank you. Oh God, thank you." He bent his head and placed a tender, chaste kiss on her swollen, dry and slightly parted lips, then, pulling back only a little, patted her cheek, trying to bring her around. Had he been thinking clearly, he wouldn't have bothered trying to wake her. He would simply have scooped her into his arms and run with her, run from this evil place, and waited until he had reached the safety of Hogwarts to revive her.

But he wasn't thinking clearly.

When confronted by the sight of a loved one as grievously injured as Hermione was, who appears to be skating a razor thin line between unconsciousness and death, anyone's first impulse would be to want that person to WAKE UP. Draco was no different.

"Hey bookworm," he whispered hoarsely, his vision suddenly blurring as he began to lose his battle against the impending tears, "wake up. It's over. I've got you, you're safe now- wake up, love. Please?"

No response. There was only one other thing for it.

Pressing the tip of his wand with infinite tenderness just over her heart, he whispered "_Ennervate_," in a voice choked with tears.

00000

Harry had nearly reached the end of a long, wide gallery with many doors leading off of it. He was tightly hugging the wall, moving quietly and cautiously, when his wand signaled, through a silent shower of sparks, that the countdown had ended. It was time to create his diversion. Somewhere else in this colossal house, Ron was getting ready to do the exact same thing.

What Harry couldn't know was that the long, straight, wide hall in which he found himself ran directly beneath Draco's second-floor hall, and the rooms which opened off it were nearly identical to Draco's rooms above. Where Draco had a library upstairs, Lucius had his library down here. Where Draco had a recreation room upstairs, Lucius had his billiard room down here. Where Draco had two guest rooms upstairs, Lucius had removed a wall to create one massive fencing room down here. And where Draco's palatial bedroom sat upstairs, spanning over a thousand square feet at the end of this wing of the manor, Lucius had his study down here. A study outside of which Harry was currently standing, unaware that Lucius himself was sitting at his desk- a desk with more surface space than Harry's four-poster bed at Hogwarts- just on the other side of the door.

The idea behind this diversion had been to bring Lucius and whoever else was currently in the house running to the source of the noise, thus keeping him far from the central foyer through which Draco was going to pass on his way out of the house with Hermione. Harry had assumed that in a house this big, it would take a minute or two at the very least for Lucius to reach the site of the diversion- crucial time that he could put to use escaping. He would surely have rethought this plan had he known that all that separated him from Lucius was some twenty feet of space and a single door.

But then, of course, he didn't know.

Glancing about, his eyes fixed on a huge crystal chandelier above him; the entire long gallery had been lined with these enormous light fixtures, giving off a dim, flickering, greenish sort of light. This nearest one would do nicely, he thought. Pressing himself even flatter against the wall so as to be out of its way when it fell, he pointed his wand upward, at the chain which anchored it to the ceiling, wondered briefly what Ron had decided to do to cause noise on the other side of the house, wondered more briefly still which of the two diversions would catch Lucius' attention, then gritted his teeth, steeling his will-

And with a few muttered words and a flick of his wand, brought the chandelier down with an almighty crash.

Lucius was on him, of course, before he even had a chance to gather his thoughts and decide which way to flee- bursting through the study door with his wand out and, his coldly furious eyes lighting on Harry, who was caught completely off-guard, snarling, "Potter!"


	13. Chapter 13: Situation FUBAR

(A/N: About the chapter title- for those that don't know, FUBAR stands for "fucked up beyond all repair" (or "beyond all reason", which I personally prefer). It was originally a military term, interestingly enough, and I think it just about sums up our heroes' situation at present. Things in this chapter go from bad to worse, and from worse to terminal, just so you know.)

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Hermione's eyes fluttered open slowly, clouded with pain. She blinked and narrowed them, trying to bring her surroundings into focus- she could just barely make out Draco's chiseled features and shock of silver hair above her. A gasp of horror was wrenched from her- _God no, not again! Not as Draco, not again- I can't TAKE this anymore-_ and she tried to throw her arms up to shield her face- but was thwarted by the fact that her hands were still bound and, moreover, her arms were numb and wooden from the hours they had spent supporting her weight. So she pressed herself down as flat as she could onto the yielding surface that she realized was the bed she had been chained to.

_Oh God, _she thought despairingly, squeezing her eyes tightly closed as an involuntary shudder of revulsion wracked her body, _he's got me on the bed again. God, if there's any mercy in you, don't let him do it again! Let me die first, oh God oh please, please let me DIE! _

And then she felt a hand cup her cheek with a gentleness she had never thought to feel again, and heard that deep, familiar voice speaking softly, from just above her head. "…kill him," Draco was muttering, his voice exuding near-palpable waves of rage and hatred, "I'm gonna kill him, I'm gonna fucking KILL him, rip him limb from bloody- fucking- limb-" But the thing that convinced her to open her eyes again was not his voice (_it's a trick- I knew he'd do this eventually- try to make me think he really IS Draco- to make it worse- it's a trick, just a trick-_), but the sudden tiny, warm splashes she felt on her face- Draco was crying, his tears falling down onto her. That was when realization began to dawn; Lucius would not carry his deception so far as to cry over her. Of that she was sure. She didn't think he was even capable of tears and if he was, he wouldn't waste them on a mudblood, not even as a means of deceiving her. Which meant that- could this- could this actually be-?

Forcing her eyes open once more, she blinked upward until he slowly came into focus above her. It was undeniably Draco, the pale eyes that had been so guarded and unexpressive for the first several years of their acquaintance now shining with agonized tears; the same tears that kept falling, splashing warm on her face.

"Draco," she said, or tried to- but no sound came out and she instantly winced, trying instinctively to press a hand to her throat. Again, her arms would not obey her. Staring up in pained confusion, having completely forgotten, since awakening, that she had been placed under a silencing spell by Lucius earlier that day, she tried again; "Dra- Draco?" No sound, and this time she nearly passed out from the pain in her throat.

"Aw, shit!" Draco cried above her; "Bastard, fucking BASTARD!" He pressed a hand gently over her mouth, lest she try to speak again. "I know this spell," he said, moving his wand so that the tip rested lightly against her throat. "He used it on me a lot when I was a kid, when he was-" his jaw clenched- "_disciplining_ me." Draco was indeed very familiar with the spell, which blocked all sound from escaping its victim's mouth and caused intense pain at every attempt of said victim to speak or cry out. He had been placed under it dozens of times in his childhood, until he had learned to suffer his father's punishments in perfect silence. The thought of Lucius using it on Hermione made him feel sick with loathing.

"Finite Incantatum," he whispered, then placed the wand immediately against her bonds and freed her hands. He returned his attention to her face just in time to see her eyes begin to roll back in her head.

"NO!" he cried. "Hermione, no!" Panicked, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her. She blinked rapidly several times and then focused on him again, though her eyes had a strange, far-away look to them now that filled him with a cold dread. "Hermione," he murmured, smoothing her rumpled hair back from her forehead, "try again now. Say my name again."

"Draco." Her voice was hoarse, but it was there. And then, "you…came?"

Draco released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His head bowed forward and his eyes fell momentarily closed as a wave of intense relief washed over him. "I came," he whispered, as tears leaked from his closed eyes, "Oh Christ God, Hermione, OF COURSE I came!"

She wetted her lips with her tongue. "But- I…thought…"

"Those things I said- every word was like a dagger in my heart. I never meant it, not any of it- come on, you're smart enough to know that. I was-" he paused and grimaced- "I was trying to protect you- I knew you were in danger because of me, I knew that bastard, that bloody BASTARD-" he stopped again, fists clenched, breathing hard, making a conscious effort to calm himself before continuing. "I thought if our relationship ended and, more than that, if you hated me, then maybe you'd be safe, that he'd leave you alone." Another pause, then, "I WAS WRONG!" he cried, suddenly and completely losing control. He brought his hands up over his face, clenching fistfuls of his silver-fine hair, actually rocking back and forth as tidal waves of guilt, grief and rage engulfed him.

Several moments later he lowered his hands and looked down at her through bloodshot eyes. She was staring up wide-eyed, as though she had never seen him before. _At least she looks focused, _he thought dully; _at least she looks like she's actually_…_here._

"I was wrong," he repeated, "but my intent was solely to protect you. I never stopped loving you, not for a second. And I would have gone to the end of the earth to find you."

Slowly, Hermione raised a shaking hand to his face, cupping his cheek and wiping away his tears with her thumb. "The earth is…round. Malfoy." she whispered.

"And you're a damned annoying know-it-all, Granger," he smiled through his tears, "but I love you for it. God, I love you so damn much!"

A tiny answering smile had just begun to touch her lips when suddenly her whole body jerked straight, almost as though she'd received an electric shock. Her eyes flew wide and she expelled her breath in a forcible "huh!" Her hands clenched into fists, the one which had been pressed to his cheek scratching him in the process.

"_HERMIONE!_" Draco felt his heart plummet down through his stomach, cold, sick fear grasping him, because he thought he understood what was happening, and it was very, very bad. His father had always had a great love of potions; it had been his best subject at Hogwarts and he had carried that passion with him throughout his life. It was the reason Draco had taken to Snape's classes like a fish to water; by the time he had reached Hogwarts, he had already spent years assisting his father in his own potions lab. Lucius' favorite potions to brew, not surprisingly, were obscure and particularly sadistic poisons.

"Draco," she gasped, sounding as though she had been kicked hard in the stomach, "hurts!"

"Aw, fuck. Fuck! Hermione-" he caught her face between his hands, staring intently into her pain-filled eyes as she struggled to breathe, seeming as though the wind had been savagely knocked out of her. "Hermione, what did he give you? HERMIONE! Think, goddamn you! What did my father give you to drink? What did it smell like, taste like? Hermione! Please- I need you to think."

Hermione gazed up at him, her face pinned between his strong hands, her mind whirling at this new onslaught of pain as tears of agony began pouring down her cheeks. Draco needed her to think…to think…she had to try for him. She closed her eyes against the pain and tried.

_It had been the last thing she remembered before waking up to see Draco bending over her. She had been chained to the canopy bar at the foot of the bed, dangling limply from her wrists because her legs would not support her after the whipping she had just received. Lucius had been standing on the edge of the bed, his arms encircling her from behind, his hands running over her body with the assurance of complete ownership as he whispered words of torment in her ear. Oh God- his hands were doing unspeakable things- and his lips- on her ear, on the nape of her neck-_

Distantly she was aware that a shudder of disgust- or was it pain? Or both? had wracked her body, causing Draco to cry out again. She wanted to comfort him, but was too caught up in her nightmarish memories….

_So great was her revulsion at his hands, his mouth, on her body that she had called up reserves of strength she hadn't even known she'd still possessed, and managed to jerk away from him, as far as her bonds would allow. Lucius had hissed angrily in her ear and, grabbing a fistful of her thick hair, had twisted her head around violently, forcing her to look at him._

"_I am sick to death of your damned Gryffindor defiance, mudblood bitch," he had spat in her face. She had stared mutely at him, already being under the silencing spell, her eyes full of hate, unflinching. "I was actually having second thoughts about killing you- I had been toying with the idea of keeping you a while longer as a plaything- but it is painfully obvious that you will never learn your place. Besides which-" his eyes had raked her body, which was covered in bruises, welts and blood, both dried and fresh, before returning to her face- "you're an appalling mess, mudbood. Really," and his mouth had twisted into a sadistic smile, "you should take better care of yourself." He had stepped back a bit, though still keeping one hand wound in her hair, and had rummaged through his robe with the other. "Yes, all things considered, I think I've gotten all the use out of you that I care to," he had said, as he had pulled a small bottle of vile-looking green liquid out of his robes, "but at least you will give me a last bit of entertainment by drinking this." He had yanked her head backwards by her hair while unstopping the bottle one-handed, then, finally releasing her hair, had plugged her nose until she was forced to open her mouth, which she had clamped tightly shut, to gasp for air. His other hand was ready with the bottle, and he had poured its contents down her throat, laughing and holding her mouth shut as she had twisted in her bonds, gagging, trying in vain to expel the noxious liquid. Only when he was sure she had swallowed it all did he release her. "So much for the plan of killing you at the meeting tonight- assuming I hadn't kept you as a fuck toy," he had said. "My followers will simply have to be content with the presence of your dead body. Perhaps I will allow them to mutilate it by way of compensation. In any event, if all goes as planned, I will still have Draco to kill in front of them. I still do expect him to turn up, you know, although as of right now he is officially too late to have any hope whatsoever of saving you. Not that he ever really did." He had broken off, laughing softly, and brought his lips to the base of her neck, kissing, sucking, marking her one final time. "The potion should begin to take effect in two hours," he had told her then, jumping nimbly from the bed to the floor; "I'll be back to watch. Until then, my little mudblood," and he had left her hanging there, sinking into darkness, the poison burning her throat and stomach. The last thing she had heard was the click of the door shutting behind him as the darkness had engulfed her._

_And then she had awakened on her back, and Draco was there, and how long had it been? Two hours? She wasn't sure_…_but it was certainly possible, wasn't it?_

Another spasm gripped her. Her back arched against the pain and her eyes flew open once more, locking on Draco's pale ones as he pulled her into his arms, holding her tight until she relaxed, gasping. "Sweet," she whispered as soon as she felt able; "it smelled…sweet…like- like licorice. But tasted…awful- worse than pol- polyjuice."

Draco, crushing her against him, rocking her slightly, wondered fleetingly how the hell she would know what polyjuice potion tasted like. This line of thought was cut off, however, as she continued; "I knew…ungh… it was b-bad. I didn't want to drink it. He m-made me. Said…he'd got all the use out of me…he cared to." Draco could feel a veritable howl of rage building in his throat, but before he could indulge in it, she convulsed again with a cry, her hands balling into fists in the material of his shirt, and he found himself instead whispering soothing words to her until the tremor passed.

"Two…hours," she gasped, when she again lay limp in his arms, panting, her hair now damp with perspiration; "he said he'd be…back…back in…two hours to watch the effects. Said he would find it…amusing. Draco-" she turned her eyes up to his, and he noted with dull horror that the far-off look was back; her eyes were starting to glaze and it looked as though she were seeing him through a thick curtain of smoked glass- "I don't- ugh- want the horrible…death he had planned for me. "Please," and she raised a hand once again to cup his cheek, "kill me quickly. Draco. Please. Please?"

He recoiled so sharply from this request that he nearly dropped her.

"You're MENTAL! I'm not going to fucking kill you!"

"Draco," she whispered, as her body shook and her eyes grew dimmer by the moment, "I'm dying anyway. Just please…it HURTS!"

"I DON'T BLOODY WELL CARE IF IT HURTS!" he shouted. "Hermione, listen! I need you to LISTEN to me!" He shook her hard, then gripped her face in both his hands again, staring intently into her eyes. "Listen. You know me. I'm a goddamn selfish bastard- you bloody well knew that going in. You knew what you were getting into in that regard. Now you ask me to end your pain- well, I won't do it! Not when it means destroying the only thing in the world that I love with all my soul. I'm too fucking selfish to do that because I want you alive, I need you alive, I will NOT kill you! Now listen, fucking LISTEN!" He shook her again because her eyes were drifting closed- "We have one thing going for us. My father's poisons are slow-acting, since he likes to watch his victims suffer. So time is on our side. I'm getting you back to Hogwarts and Professor Snape will know a way to fix this! He has- has to- know-" he choked off because he was losing the battle that he was waging against the screams and sobs that were threatening to wrench themselves from his throat.

A moment later, after somewhat regaining his composure, he bent and gently kissed the tip of her nose. She was still looking up at him, but her eyes were distant and dull. "Hermione," he murmured, "I know it hurts. But I'm asking you to bear the pain and to fight this, for me- please. I'm not going to release you from your pain- I can't do it. I'm that selfish, that I'd rather see you suffer if it means you'll pull through and live. Because I need you in my life- every day of my life- for the rest of my life. Hermione- I want you to be my wife."

She blinked hard, and suddenly her eyes looked a whole lot clearer. Cocking her head slightly, she met his pale gaze with an expression of disbelief on her face. "You're…proposing?" she whispered. "NOW?"

Draco cracked a tiny smile, through the tears that continued to fall, at her incredulous reaction. "Yes," he said, "I'm proposing. Now. For better or worse, and since I don't see how things can get much worse, this seems to me like the perfect time to propose; it can only get better from here. If you'll fight. Hermione- I know it must hurt like a bastard, but please say you'll fight this. Please say my love is worth fighting for. Please?"

She pressed her eyes closed against another spasm, but when it passed and she opened them again, they were still clear, still aware- filled with pain, but she was still with him. "I'll try," she said.

"Thank you," he replied, his voice cracking. Then, before he could say anything else, there came the sound a tremendous crash from just below his room. He started, poised to throw himself over Hermione should she need protection, but then, a second later, he realized what the sound must have been. "Diversion," he muttered; "there was the diversion." And then, "I'm getting you the hell out of here, now."

He pulled her to the edge of the bed and up into a sitting position, her feet on the floor. "Can you sit up alone?" he asked, and she nodded mutely, gritting her teeth against the pain that was coursing throughout her body. With supreme effort, she kept herself upright as he let go of her in order to strip off his shirt and place it on her, drawing it gently over her head and helping her push her arms, which didn't seem to want to obey her, into the too-long sleeves. As he did this, he explained to her that he had a portkey with him that would get them back to Hogwarts- it would land them right on the front steps, in fact- but they had to get out of the manor and past the gates before he could activate it. He was talking to himself as much as to her, in an effort to stave off his impending hysteria. Which was just as well, because it didn't look like very much of what he was saying was registering in her mind at all. "Portkeys don't work on the grounds of the manor, nor does apparition. Father's security measures," he said, his voice tight with hatred. Once she was clothed in his shirt, he scooped her easily into his arms, catching her just as her strength gave out and she collapsed forward. Settling her with infinite tenderness against his now bare chest, he sprinted out the bedroom door, forgetting all about the invisibility cloak in his haste, leaving it lying, a puddle of silvery fabric, on his bedroom floor.

As he raced down the huge manor's seemingly endless upstairs hall, Draco could feel the tremors that continued to wrack Hermione's body as he cradled her in his arms. Someone who didn't know that she was fighting the effects of a cruel and deadly poison might have thought she was suffering from severe hiccups.

Draco ran as though his life depended on it, because in a way, it did. She WAS his life; his heart, his soul. If she died in his arms it would be a fate worse than death; it would be akin to a Dementor's Kiss because he would be left alive- technically- but without his soul. Without any reason whatsoever to go on.

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By the time Harry caused the chandelier to fall, Ron had already created his own diversion and, not having received any response whatsoever, concluded that Lucius and whoever else was currently in the house must have been a lot closer to Harry's location than his own. Consequently, just as Lucius began firing spells at Harry, Ron was racing not toward the gate at the edge of the manor's land, but back through the house in the direction Harry had taken, all thought of escape gone from his mind, bent solely on finding his best friend.

He didn't know how he knew, but something was wrong with Harry. His friend had come to harm. He knew this with a deep, instinctual surety- a surety born, perhaps, of seven years of best-friendship with a boy who, it seemed at times, could barely go a month without having an attempt made on his life by the forces of evil- and he knew also that there was no way he was leaving this house without Harry safe beside him.

He could trust Malfoy to get Hermione out, but there was no one to get Harry out but him. Damned if he was just going to cut and run.

All thoughts of stealth gone from his mind, he tore through the dimly lit halls of Malfoy Manor, putting on a fresh burst of speed when he heard shouting voices up ahead, silently begging Harry to hold his own for just a little while longer- he was almost there.

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"Protego!" Harry cried desperately, deflecting- just barely- yet another jet of light from Lucius' wand. He wasn't familiar with any of the curses Lucius was hurling at him- he wouldn't be, as they were all undoubtedly dark magic- but he was absolutely certain that any one of them, should it actually hit him, would in all likelihood result in a horrible death…or maybe just horrendous pain…or both.

Caught completely off-guard when Lucius had borne down upon him with such stunning swiftness, Harry had been at a disadvantage from the get-go. Lucius had started hurling spells at him instantly, practically before he was all the way through the door, forcing Harry immediately into defense mode, and he had been caught in defense mode ever since. It was all he could do to protect himself from the elder Malfoy's vicious onslaught by dodging and deflecting the curses that were coming his way in a steady stream- Lucius had not given him one single opening in which to take the offensive.

Though in reality it had been only minutes, it seemed as if it had been going on forever.

It was a constant, relentless attack; curse after curse after vicious, deadly curse.

He was getting tired.

Any second now, his strength would flag, his concentration would slip, he would be too slow, he would make a mistake-

And it would cost him his life.

He knew this.

And so it came as no great surprise when a spell did indeed finally hit him. The only surprise was what spell it was- after all the sinister curses Lucius had been spouting, what should finally slam into him but a simple Immobulus spell?

It was enough, though, to render him helpless and put him at Lucius' nonexistent mercy. It attached his feet to the floor as if they had been nailed there, rendering him unable to dodge any further spells his adversary should send at him, and while he was distracted, trying to yank his feet off the floor, Lucius took gleeful advantage of his panicked state and easily Accio'd his wand, which he then tossed away, through the door of his study, into the shadows beyond.

At this point, Harry finally stopped struggling against the spell which was holding him in place and stood stock still, breathing hard, his green eyes fixed unflinchingly on Lucius, glaring at him with hatred and defiance. He knew it was all over for him. He only hoped that by now Draco, Hermione and Ron were all out of the manor and on their way back to Hogwarts.

_Please,_ he prayed silently, _let them be safe. If they're all safe, then it's worth it. I knew the risks coming here, I accepted them- I still do. Just so long as they're safe- no regrets._

Lucius was surveying him with a cold smile and a cruel gleam in his eye.

"So, Potter," he drawled at length, "this is a surprise. I must admit, I never expected to see you here. Did you come alone?"

Harry's eyes narrowed to slits. His only response was a rather rude comment involving Lucius' mother, a jar of marmalade, and the latest model broomstick.

That wiped the smile off Lucius' pale face.

He had been twirling his wand idly ever since having tossed Harry's aside, knowing that the boy no longer posed him a threat, but now he raised it again, leveling it at Harry's chest.

"You cannot imagine the pleasure it will give me," he hissed, "to accomplish what my predecessor never could. Imagine the reaction tonight when I produce for my loyal followers not only the mudblood's body, but yours as well. I had hoped to procure my son for this evening's…festivities, but you'll do, Potter. You'll do well enough."

Harry took a deep breath, closing his emerald eyes briefly as he did so. When he opened them again, they were calm, resigned. "Go fuck yourself," he advised, in a pleasant, conversational tone.

Lucius sucked in a sharp breath, barely able to comprehend, as when Hermione had spit upon him, that anyone would dare treat him in this manner. "I've had about enough of your dirty mouth, boy," he ground out from between clenched teeth. "Give the mudblood my regards- she'll be joining you very shortly. _Avada Kedavra_."

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What happened next happened so fast it was a blur.

Ron, whose approach had gone unnoticed by both Harry and Lucius, so riveted were they on one another, was several feet away and closing fast when Harry's situation took an abrupt turn from bad to worse. Well, no, actually- to be more accurate, Harry's situation skipped "worse" entirely and went straight from bad to terminal. This was, of course, the direct result of Harry's suggestion that Lucius go fuck himself- _Goddamn it, Harry,_ Ron thought furiously, _of all the lousy fucking times to mouth off-_

He had been reaching for his wand in order to Stupefy Lucius, but saw immediately that it was no good- he was out of time. Even as Lucius' lips were forming the words of the killing curse, Ron realized with perfect, aching clarity that he had lost any chance of stopping the spell from being cast. The only chance he had left to save his friend was to place himself between deadly green light that was even now gathering at the tip of Lucius' wand, and Harry.

There was no debate, no hesitation.

Indeed, the only thought that ran through his mind in that instant, as he launched himself at Harry, whose eyes, just beginning to widen with shock, finally fixed on him, was, _Thank God I'm close enough, thank God, thank God, thank-_

And then, quite suddenly, even as he was airborne, the green of Harry's startled eyes seemed to leap out at him…in fact, the whole world went green in a brief, intense flash.

And then there was nothing.

Nothing at all.

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Lucius saw the curse slam into…well, one of the boys, but he couldn't tell which one. It all happened so fast. Maybe it had managed to hit them both, he thought hopefully. It was a rare occurrence, but not unheard of. Then they were falling together, the momentum with which the Weasley boy- for Lucius now saw that was who it had to be- there was no mistaking that hair- had hurled himself at Potter driving them both down. Harry's feet remained fixed to the floor, however, held in place by the spell. This caused him to fall awkwardly, his head impacting the polished flagstones with a resounding thwack. Then both boys lay perfectly still, Ron splayed out across Harry, their faces nearly touching, red hair mingling with black.

Lucius stared down at the two boys lying tangled together in an unmoving heap on the floor, a triumphant sneer curling the side of his mouth.

"Two birds with one stone," he murmured with immense satisfaction.

He started to move forward to check them, just to make absolutely sure, but then stopped again, arrested by a sudden thought. When he had first seen Harry, a large part of the fury he had felt had come from the assumption that his presence at the manor meant Draco had decided not to come home after all- that his son had retained enough Slytherin tendencies to send Potter instead, to do his dirty work for him. The thought that he was to be denied the opportunity to capture his son had filled him with a rage so intense it was abnormal even for him. But now…

He thought hard for a moment. Potter was here. Weasley was here. Who was to say that Draco was not also here somewhere- that they had not all come together- a bloody team effort? How very Gryffindor that would be, after all. He hissed in a sudden breath as everything clicked in his mind. Yes, it all made sense- the three boys would arrive together; Draco, the only one among them who knew his way around, would immediately embark upon rescuing his mudblood girlfriend while these two- these two-

"Diversion," he muttered aloud, his eyes coming to rest on the shattered chandelier. These two had been sent off in opposite directions to deliberately make noise, to cause a diversion.

So that Draco could get the mudblood out unimpeded.

"Shit!"

Without another thought for the two boys at his feet, Lucius whirled and made for the manor's central hall and staircase at a dead run.


	14. Chapter 14: And Getting Worse

Green eyes blinked slowly open, pain and disorientation evident in their expression.

"Ow," Harry said, grimacing, one of his hands going slowly to his head, which was throbbing with a bright, sharp pain that brought tears to his eyes.

What the hell had happened? He screwed his eyes closed again, trying to concentrate, trying to think- the agony in his head did not make thinking easy.

Neither did the weight on his chest. What was lying across his chest?

He frowned, eyes still closed. Bits and pieces were coming back to him now. He remembered…causing the chandelier to fall. Lucius bursting upon him before he'd had time to take so much as a single step. Spell after spell, curse after curse, flung at him, so rapidly he had known it was just a matter of time before he was hit. He remembered being hit. That had been no surprise. His feet fixed to the floor, his wand Accio'd from his hand. Helpless. He tried to move his feet now- they were still being held firmly in place by the spell. That didn't make sense. Lucius had had him right where he'd wanted him. Wandless, immobilized. Why, then, was he still alive? With a splitting headache and stuck awkwardly to the floor like a pinned bug, but alive? There must be more to it, more that needed remembering.

His brow was furrowed in concentration, his eyes still closed because perhaps he knew, on a subconscious level at least, that he didn't WANT to open them, didn't want to discover what was lying across his chest, didn't want to face it. Not now, not ever. Not ever. He…remembered…the things he had said to Lucius, and the way the man's face had contorted with incredulous rage that he should be spoken to in such a manner. That brought a touch of a smile to Harry's lips, but it vanished again a fraction of a second later because now he remembered…green light gathering at the tip of Lucius' wand. Knowing that this was it, his life was over. Making his peace in that instant. Accepting death- not willingly, he hadn't wanted to die- but accepting it with no regrets just so long as it bought the others time to get safely out. Hermione, Ron, even Draco- his family, his REAL family, more real to him than his blood relatives had ever been- just so long as they were all safe- safe and far from here-

"Oh no," he whispered aloud.

Because that wasn't what had happened. That wasn't what had happened at all. No matter how desperately he strove to not think about it, to not remember, as though by refusing to acknowledge it he could somehow make it not real, make it not have happened, it was coming, it was here- the memory that explained how it was that he was still alive, that made everything clear.

"Oh no."

He remembered Ron appearing at his side as if from thin air- how had he gotten there, HOW?- and WHY had he come, that wasn't part of the plan!- throwing himself between Harry and the curse. He remembered wide blue eyes locking with his own as they fell- and then nothing. He had obviously hit his head hard and blacked out. And now he knew what was lying across his chest, he knew what he would see when he opened his eyes, because that green light had been real, that curse had been spoken, it had to have hit something, and that something hadn't been him, as evidenced by the fact that he was still alive. So-

"No. Oh no. Please no."

He opened his eyes.

Even knowing what he was going to see didn't- couldn't- prepare him for it. Ron lay sprawled across him, of course, face down; a jumble of awkward, slightly-too-long limbs. He had almost grown into his height- almost, but not quite. And now he never would. He wasn't moving, he wasn't breathing, his body was limp and heavy in a way that no living person can quite manage, no matter how deeply unconscious- because it was now nothing more than a thing, an inanimate object, a cast-off shell. Ron was gone. Utterly and irretrievably gone.

"No." Harry shook his head. He had meant to shake it once- a single firm, decisive negation of what all his senses were telling him; that his best friend was dead, that he had died to save him- but having begun, he found that he couldn't stop. He just kept shaking his head and he kept saying no.

"No. No, Ron, no. No no no."

He couldn't take this in. His mind was reeling. He hadn't even begun to grieve yet; in order to really grieve, one must first accept that the death has happened, and Harry hadn't yet done that. The evidence was here, right here on top of him- but he couldn't accept it. He couldn't. No.

And so he found himself speaking to Ron, not even really consciously aware of what he was saying, knowing on a deep level, a gut level, that the words were absurd, but unable to stop himself.

"Ron, get up. Get up, this isn't funny. You're okay, you're…please, get up. You're heavy, mate. I mean it, wake up! Damn it, Ron, gerroff me!"

Tears were running unchecked down his face, unnoticed until they interfered with his words, choking him.

It was at this point, when it became undeniably clear that his increasingly frantic pleas were not going to elicit a response, that a corner of his mind began screaming, _My brother, My brother, My brother is dead!_

Funny, that, he would later think. For he had never really thought of Ron as his brother before- not on a conscious level, at least. Yet there it was, as clear as day. My brother is dead. Oh God, how would he get through this? How could he go on from here?

He felt madness beating at the edges of his mind, and fought it off grimly. Not because he wouldn't have welcomed it- the idea of becoming a gibbering madman actually held some appeal, when the alternative was to attempt to calmly and rationally face a world that no longer had Ron in it- but rather because it occurred to him that if Ron had not left the manor then perhaps Draco and Hermione hadn't either; perhaps something had gone wrong there as well. It never rains but it pours, after all. And if that was the case, if they had run into trouble as well, then they would need him and he had to go to them, for they were family too, after all- Hermione…and even Draco. Because we don't choose our family, and we don't even always like our family, but we love our family- and Harry had been growing to love Draco ever since his resorting. If Ron was his brother, then Draco was too. And if Draco and Hermione were in trouble and Harry failed to reach them- if he lost one or both of them too because of his own inaction- well, that really would push him right over the brink, for good and all. This he was sure of.

So, gritting his teeth, he levered himself up into a sitting position and shifted Ron off of him as carefully as he could.

The pain in his head was slowly receding, allowing him to think more clearly. Still, it took him a long moment to clear his head of the immense shock of Ron's death- not entirely, of course- he didn't think he'd ever be entirely free of this shock, or this pain, not if he lived to be a hundred- but enough to decide what to do next.

His eyes lit on Ron's wand, and he pulled it gently from his friend's still-warm hand. Pointing it at his feet, he murmured, "Finite Incantatum."

Nothing happened. His feet remained fixed to the floor.

And the reality of Ron's death was once again rammed into his consciousness with all the force of the Hogwarts Express hitting him head-on, the pain so great it was now quite literally physical, and he wrapped both arms around his stomach, hard, and folded himself over until his head was resting on his knees, fighting back an abrupt and violent wave of nausea.

Because, he realized, Ron's wand was useless to him now; it would no longer respond to any witch or wizard, because its owner was dead.

_Dead. Ron is dead. My brother is dead._

It was several moments later that he gasped three words out loud- "Get. A. Grip." He raised his head slowly, his eyes, puffy and still leaking tears, and all the more brilliantly green as a result, sweeping over Ron, who lay, still face-down, beside him, and traveling to the open doorway of Lucius' study. Somewhere beyond that door lay his own wand, and he needed it.

He sucked in a deep, shaky breath, preparing to do wandless magic, which the seventh years had recently been learning and which was difficult under the best of circumstances. (Well, for everyone except Draco. He seemed to have the same sort of natural affinity for it that Harry himself had for flying.)

If he could not manage to gather his scattered thoughts, the feat would be well-nigh impossible.

Once he had managed to get hold of himself, more or less anyway, a decision was called for. He could either attempt to use wandless magic to end the Immobulus spell, freeing himself to go and collect his wand, or he could attempt to call the wand to him, and then use it to terminate the spell. He opted for the latter; it was simpler magic. He could only perform very simple spells without his wand, which was why, when Lucius had Accio'd it from him, he had been left as completely defenseless as if he knew no wandless magic at all.

Despite his limitations in this area, he was hopeful his wand would be responsive to him in spite of- or perhaps because of- his highly emotional state.

He gathered his concentration to the best of his ability, extended his right hand toward the doorway of Lucius' study and, his brow creased with effort, murmured, "Accio wand."

The wand came with a swiftness that surprised him. He had been hoping for the best, of course, but deep down, not really daring to expect much in the way of results…and terrified that even if he did manage to summon the wand he would find that it had maybe snapped on impact or some similar catastrophe; Lucius had thrown it very hard, after all.

But in a matter of seconds it was there in his hand, and proved itself to be in perfectly good working order when, flicking it downward, he again said, "_Finite Incantatum_," then lifted his feet easily from the floor.

Immediately he scrambled to his knees, bent over Ron's still form and rolled him gently onto his back.

He wasn't prepared for what the sight of his best friend's open, lifeless eyes would do to him.

He doubled over so suddenly and so hard that it would have looked to an observer like an invisible fist had sucker-punched him…and that was exactly how he felt. It seemed, as his head impacted Ron's chest and he buried his face there, hands fisting in the soft material of Ron's much-worn orange Chudley Cannons tee-shirt, that the room had become a vacuum- that there was no air left in it- that he was no more capable of drawing a breath than Ron was at this point.

And it occurred to him then to wonder whether he even wanted to draw another breath; whether it was worthwhile going on with his life when there would be no Ron anymore- _ever_- to play chess with, to practice Quidditch with, to launch midnight raids on the kitchens with, to commiserate with over girls, to roll his eyes at behind Snape's back. A world without his best friend in it- what was the point?

And yet there was a point, because, he recalled (though not without significant effort), Ron was not the only person he loved. There were others, and two of those others, he was increasingly sure, needed him. He felt this with the same almost instinctual clarity with which Ron himself had felt, not long ago, that Harry had needed _him_. He had to get to Draco and Hermione.

He was shaking from head to foot, tears still escaping his eyes, as he sucked in a deep, hitching breath and raised his head- then gently, so gently, closed Ron's eyes with his fingertips.

"I'll come back for you," he whispered in a choked voice. "I won't leave you here. I am really- fucking- angry with you right now-" (even as he said this he realized, with a sense of mild surprise, that it was true- he was abso-fucking-lutely furious with Ron for abandoning the plan and getting himself killed. He hadn't asked Ron to sacrifice himself! He hadn't wanted his bloody interference!) "-but I WILL come back, Ron. I promise."

So saying, he straightened up, thrust Ron's now defunct wand into the waistband of his pants, kept his own in hand, and set off at a jog down the long, wide hallway with its sinister, flickering green lights, back toward the center of the mansion. Yes, he was furious with Ron for having come after him, but that didn't stop him from making the exact same resolution Ron himself had made earlier; that he would not leave this house until he knew his friends were safe and accounted for.

If Draco and Hermione had come to harm, if they were still here somewhere and in need of him, he would find them, come hell or high water.

As it turned out, he didn't have to look very far. The sound of raised voices as he approached the foyer where he and Ron had split up told him that his friends were in fact still in the house, and that, oh yes indeed, they had found trouble.

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Draco was halfway down the manor's main staircase, a formal, curving affair with a large landing in the middle, when he was brought up short by the sight of his father. He had been flying down the steps, taking them two at a time, and had just skidded around the curved landing- and there was Lucius, standing in the marble foyer at the bottom of the stairs, completely at ease, with a smile on his face and his wand already trained on Draco's heart.

Draco stopped short, breathing hard, eyes locked on his father, his arms instinctively tightening about Hermione for just a fraction of a second- then he backed up, just two steps, one foot and then the other, until he was against the wall, standing directly beneath a large, ornate stained glass window that overlooked the landing. Slowly, warily, his gaze never leaving his father's face, he dropped to one knee and deposited Hermione gently on the floor, propping her up in a sitting position with her back to the wall.

"Draco-?" she whispered, barely half conscious, as yet unaware of Lucius' presence.

"S'alright, love," he murmured, never looking away from his father. "Just hold on. Hold on, bookworm, okay?"

"'kay," she breathed, her voice barely audible.

And then Draco was on his feet again, in another of his quick, fluid movements, placing himself directly in front of Hermione, shielding her from Lucius' view- and from his wand. Though he really need hardly have worried on that account. There was little Lucius could do to Hermione, after all, that was not already being accomplished by the poison. The wand remained trained unwaveringly on Draco's chest.

He swallowed hard, bit back his seething hatred for the man standing before him- for the time being at any rate- and, drawing in a deep, shaking breath, managed to compose himself enough to ask the question that was foremost on his mind. When he spoke, his voice was remarkably even.

"Father…is there an antidote?"

Lucius' smile broadened. "Well, son. Wouldn't you like to know?"

Draco closed his eyes, fighting for control. His hands were clenched into fists of rage- he wanted nothing more than to curse his father into oblivion, but he knew that Lucius had all the advantages in this situation. For one thing, there was the matter of the wand pointed at him. The second he went for his own wand his father would gladly incapacitate- or kill- him. There was no way he could draw fast enough to prevent this- after all, as quick as his reflexes were, he had inherited them from his father. Lucius was more than a match for him, and he knew it. And, just supposing he beat all the odds and managed to fire off a curse at Lucius- he would never then learn anything about the poison that was even now killing his beloved.

By cursing Lucius, he would seal Hermione's fate.

His eyes snapped open, flat dark gray. His voice too was flat. "Look at me, father. Here I am. I came as you asked, you can do as you like with me, I don't care. But if there's a way, then just- Put. Her. Right."

"Ah, young love," Lucius drawled, "isn't it grand? Look at you, Draco, so selfless, so protective…who are you and what have you done with my son? The boy I raised to fight for the family's causes, uphold the Malfoy honor and oh- right- not go around _falling in love with filthy mudbloods?_"

"Goddamn it," Draco said through gritted teeth, his voice rising despite himself; control slipping. "You wanted me, you have me. Let's keep this in the family, father. She was just a means to an end, and you've achieved that end. So will you PUT HER RIGHT!"

"Now, Draco," Lucius taunted, "what sort of father would I be if I didn't accept the love of my only son's life into the family? Your little mudblood girlfriend is as much a part of this as you are, I'm afraid. And in answer to your question, no son, I do not deal in antidotes. The mudblood is as good as dead. And so are you."

Draco's face contorted with fury; his self-control was hanging by a thread, as Lucius could very well see. It would take only one more choice comment to send him over the brink, and the elder Malfoy knew just what button to push.

"I'm almost sad to see her go," Lucius said with a smirk. "She is, after all, a very pretty girl, as I'm sure you are aware. Although-" he cocked his head to the side, giving Hermione a brief contemplative look before Draco shifted position to once again block her from view- "I must say, I rather prefer her _without_ the shirt- son."

That, of course, did it. Draco could take no more.

With a cry of rage he launched himself at his father.

Who, with a smug little smile and a flick of his wand, spoke just one word-

"Crucio."

Draco, already in motion, was unable to dodge. The spell hit him full-on and he fell hard. Having just reached the edge of the landing, he pitched over it and tumbled down the remaining stairs to land in a heap at his father's feet, the wind knocked out of him, his head impacting the hard marble floor with a sickening crack. But the pain of the fall was nothing to the pain of the curse, the shrieking agony that had invaded every inch of his body.

Even so, he made no sound. But whether he kept silent through an act of will, or whether it was because he had no breath with which to cry out, it was impossible to say- even for Draco himself, who was, at that point, well beyond analyzing his own actions. All he knew was pain.

Lucius might well have kept the Cruciatus on Draco until, with all the air knocked from his lungs and unable to draw breath due to the intensity of the curse, he blacked out, or worse- but it was at that moment, when all of the elder Malfoy's attention was bent on gloating over his broken, writhing son, that someone else entered the foyer through a side door, moving quickly and silently as only a Seeker could. A furious, snarling black-haired blur, Harry threw himself at Lucius from behind, ramming into him shoulder-first and causing him to lose both his concentration and his balance. With a startled oath, Lucius stumbled and would have fallen under Harry's weight had he not managed to grab a hold of the nearby banister.

As Draco finally dragged in a deep, shuddery breath and lifted his head from the floor, willing the room to stop spinning, Lucius turned his attention- and his wand- onto Harry, who, made rash and clumsy by grief, had himself overbalanced as a result of his attack. Pale, cold eyes locked momentarily onto bright green ones half-crazed with sorrow and loss- then, as Harry righted himself and went for his wand, Lucius, who still had his in hand, leveled it at the dark-haired boy and with a flick of his wrist sent Harry flying through the air to slam into the wall over the landing. Having just barely missed crashing straight through the stained-glass window, Harry slumped to the floor of the landing not three feet from where Draco had left Hermione.

Groaning, he immediately wrapped both arms about his midsection. Something was seriously wrong there. From the instant he had hit the wall, it felt as though his entire ribcage was on fire. He tried to breathe and found that he couldn't- at least, not properly. All he could manage were tiny, hitching gasps that caused burning, lancing pain to radiate through his torso.

"Unh," he grunted, fighting to remain conscious, and twisted onto his side, his green eyes, now dazed and out of focus, coming to rest on- "Huh-Herm-hione?"

She looked back at him, her eyes wide and dark in her pale face, and spoke just two words; "Harry…wand."

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Lucius, meanwhile, had returned his attention to Draco, who had managed to push himself onto his knees, but, stunned and weakened by the fall and the effects of the curse, had not yet drawn his own wand and was therefore helpless against his now maniacally grinning father.

"Well, Draco," Lucius drawled out, "it seems the little mudblood was correct when she told me you make no sound under the Cruciatus. Impressive. However, I think that given enough time we can break through your barrier of silence. What do you say, son?"

Draco, his silvery hair spilling forward, a thin, bright ribbon of blood trickling from his nose down over his lips and chin, raised his eyes to Lucius and gave him a look that was pure, unadulterated loathing.

"That's the spirit, boy," Lucius said gaily. "I do so love a challenge, as your mudblood has already learned! Remember, Draco, the moment you cry mercy, I'll stop."

He raised his wand again. "Crucio!"

Draco crumpled once more, thrown from his knees flat onto his back by the force of the renewed curse, but still, not a sound escaped him. And this time, his continued silence was indeed the result of sheer will. He would not beg his father for mercy.

He would rather die.

Fortunately, his suffering this time was short-lived, due to what had been transpiring up on the landing.

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Harry, at Hermione's words, had pulled out his wand and attempted, using the wall as leverage, to push himself back to his feet…and had failed spectacularly. He had managed to drag himself about halfway up, leaning heavily on the wall all the while, but then a spasm of pain had ripped through his ribcage so intense that he had fallen back to his knees- then, arms once more wrapped around himself, had pitched forward, doubled over, and come to rest right beside Hermione.

Who had been gathering herself together to the best of her ability since having been left there, had heard Lucius' cold, taunting words a moment ago and understood that Draco was in serious trouble, and who now realized that Harry was currently in a gray place, hovering between consciousness and oblivion, in no condition to give assistance.

Blinking hard to focus her eyes, which she found increasingly difficult to do, she made a conscious effort to clamp down on her own pain and, reaching out, grasped Harry's wand and pulled it from his hand. Then, biting her lip hard against the waves of poison-induced agony that were rolling over her, she crawled on her hands and knees to the edge of the landing and looked down the stairs.

Lucius, who was once again focused wholly on Draco's suffering, convinced that neither she nor Harry posed a threat any longer, never saw her raise the wand, her hand shaking so badly that she had to steady it with the other one before she managed, gathering all her remaining strength and concentration, to cry out, "Stupefy!"

Lucius heard, but not in enough time to deflect the spell. He had only just begun to turn his head toward her voice, astonishment dawning over his features, when the jet of red light hit him full on, and he fell like a stone.

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Draco lay gasping at the foot of the stairs, his heart pounding crazily, blood now pouring from his nose and the room swimming sickly before his eyes. He was marginally aware of his father now sprawling beside him. He drew in a particularly deep, shaky breath, coughed weakly as some of the blood from his nose went down his throat, then rolled onto his side, into a protected little ball, his back to his father, his body shuddering violently from the prolonged torment it had just been subjected to.

There was no telling how long he might have lain there had he not at that point heard a familiar and much loved voice calling his name from somewhere far above.

"Hermione," he croaked, raising his head from the floor to see her kneeling at the edge of the landing, her face deathly pale and drawn tight with pain, her wild, dark hair tumbling forward over her shoulders as she peered down at him.

"Draco," she said again, her voice, which had been strong when she'd flung the spell at Lucius and then called his name a second ago, now fading back to a hoarse whisper.

And then as he watched, her eyes rolled back and she slumped over sideways in a dead faint, Harry's wand falling from her hand and clattering down the steps.

"HERMIONE!"

He was halfway up the stairs, scrambling on his hands and knees, before he was aware that he was moving at all. Reaching her, he rolled her onto her back, his movements still jerky and uncoordinated- an aftereffect of the curse- and, gripping her by the shoulders, shook her gently.

"Hermione. Hermione?"

No response.

"Shit. Oh, shitshitshit! Sweetheart, please!"

He fumbled for his wand, intending to Ennervate her as he had in his room, but was distracted by a sound from close behind him. He whipped about- his reflexes beginning to return at last- and saw Harry in the process of pushing himself slowly into a sitting position, his glasses askew and his green eyes dull and cloudy with pain.

"Potter," Draco said, as Harry visibly clamped down on a cry. Leaving Hermione's side, albeit reluctantly, he crawled over to where Harry now half-sat, half-lay against the wall, breathing in shallow, rapid pants. "Potter- what is it? Where do you hurt?"

"…chest," Harry gasped out. "Think…broken…rib. N-never thought…it would hurt this bad."

Now Draco did pull out his wand and, after a moment's concentration, cast a pain-deadening spell on his injured friend. It didn't take away all the pain; it was too intense to be banished entirely. But it offered a degree of relief and allowed Harry to breathe a little easier.

Draco glanced back over to where Hermione lay. "We have to get her back to Hogwarts, Potter. Now. My bastard father poisoned her. He says there's no antidote, but I don't think he would tell me if there was one. Maybe Snape will know something- I have- I have to believe…but we've got to hurry. She's- Christ, she's dying, Potter." He glanced all around, somewhat wildly, then- "where the hell is Weasley, anyway?"

Harry didn't reply. But his silence, coupled with the lost, haunted look in his eyes, gave Draco all the answer he needed.

Draco's stomach flipped over. He felt suddenly very cold. "No. Oh, no. Bloody hell. Potter- are you sure?"

Harry ducked his head, abruptly raising a hand to shade his eyes, but not before Draco saw the twin tears streak down his face. "Yeah," he said hoarsely, "yeah, Malfoy, I'm sure."

"How?" Draco asked in a small voice.

"It was meant to be me," Harry whispered bitterly. "The killing curse- he knocked me out of the way. He-" Harry stopped, choking on a sob, and dropped his face into both his hands, unable to continue. Draco reached out and gently clasped him on the shoulder as the dark haired boy's entire body began to heave with deep, convulsive sobs. Draco knew that if Harry did indeed have a broken rib, then crying this way had to be immensely painful for him, and quite possibly damaging as well. But he also knew that there was nothing he could do to prevent it, short of Stupefying his friend. Harry's grief was beyond measure. It had to out.

"God…damnit…Ron…" Harry choked at length, between great, body-wracking sobs, "you bloody…stupid…bastard…WHY? It should have been me, it should have been ME!"

Draco watched, aghast, this display of grief so deep he could barely fathom it. He mourned Ron's loss too, but he had never had a friend as close as Ron had been to Harry. He couldn't imagine feeling a grief this profound unless-

"SHIT!" he cried suddenly. The news of Ron's death had distracted him for a moment from the situation at hand, but now one word pounded into his head with all the force of a bludger knocking him from his broom; HERMIONE. He _would_ feel a grief this profound if he lost Hermione, and he would lose her if he didn't get her back to school, RIGHT NOW.

"Potter, we have to go," he said urgently. Harry would have to do his grieving later, or else on the move. There was no more time to be lost. When the distraught boy failed to respond right away, Draco forced himself to harden his voice. "You've already lost one best friend," he said. "Do you want to lose the other one too? Did you hear me say that Hermione's been poisoned? Potter, we have to get her out of here now!"

This finally caught Harry's attention. "Hermione," he said, raising his head. He looked over to where she lay. "Oh no."

"Oh yes," Draco said, "come on, Potter." Standing, he helped Harry up, then went to kneel once more beside Hermione. Harry limped over to stand beside him, leaning heavily on the banister.

Glancing up at him as he gathered Hermione into his arms, Draco said, "we'll get her back to school, then come back for Weasley, okay? I don't like the idea of leaving him here, but- with you injured, it would take too much time to get him and Hermione both out past the gate. And we haven't got time. You understand that, Potter? This can't wait."

Harry nodded dumbly. Either he was in agreement or was so far out of it in pain and grief that he was past caring.

As Draco staggered to his feet with Hermione once again clasped to his chest, she let out a small whimper. Both boys grimaced as though feeling her pain.

"I can't lose her too," Harry whispered. He was looking past Draco with faraway, empty eyes and seemed to be speaking to himself. "It'll kill me."

"You and me both, Potter," Draco muttered, and started down the stairs.

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Only to stop suddenly, confronted by the sight of his father, Stupefied on the marble foyer floor.

He had completely forgotten about him.

He simply stood and stared for a long moment, halfway down the stairs, Hermione cradled in his arms, as the rage and hatred he felt toward this man built and built within him until, as had happened to Harry on that fateful day over a year ago in Voldemort's throne room, Draco literally saw red.

The girl he loved more than his life- more than his soul- was dying in his arms…he could still feel the poison-induced tremors coursing through her otherwise limp body- and the man at the foot of the stairs was the cause of it. Never mind what he had done to Draco himself, or to Harry, or even to Ron- Draco's entire world had narrowed in that instant to include only two things; the pain-wracked body of his lover in his arms, and the man who had caused her pain lying at his feet. It was time to make Lucius pay.

It was time to make Lucius die.

He would never remember later descending the rest of the steps- it seemed that in the next instant he was simply there, once again kneeling to gently deposit Hermione on the floor, whispering to her, though he didn't think she could hear him any longer, that this would only take a moment- there was just one last thing he needed to do and then he'd have her out of here- just a moment more, bookworm, okay?

Pressing a brief kiss to her forehead, he stood, and moved to tower over his unconscious father. He pulled out his wand and though his body was trembling with rage and hate and the last lingering effects of the Cruciatus curse, his hand was perfectly steady as he trained the wand on Lucius' heart.

"Goodbye, father," he said.

And that was when Harry spoke from just behind him.

"Malfoy! You can't murder your own father while he's Stupefied!" He had followed Draco down the stairs, retrieved his wand from where it lay, and was now standing at the blond boy's elbow, apparently aghast at what Draco clearly intended to do.

"Can't I?" Draco's voice was flat. His pale eyes, when he turned them on Harry, were equally so. "Speak for yourself, Potter. You don't have it in you to kill an unconscious man, no matter what the provocation. All right. I respect that about you, I really do. I, however, am not you. I'm no hero, I never claimed to be. And let me assure you, I _can_ kill him. And I will." So saying, he returned his attention to Lucius' prone figure and sucked in a sharp breath, in preparation for speaking the curse.

"MALFOY!"

Draco's whole body jerked, as though Harry's shout had been a physical blow. He turned his head very slowly this time toward the dark haired boy, and his eyes were narrowed to dangerous slits. He was breathing hard. His voice, when he spoke, was a snarl.

"Potter. This bastard has already cost you one best friend. He's about to cost you the other one, if you don't stop wasting. My. Bloody. TIME! WHY are you defending him?"

"I'm not doing this for him, Draco! I'm doing this for you! Because I don't care what lengths you go to in order to hide it, I KNOW you have a conscience in there somewhere, and if you murder your father while he's Stupefied it will eat away at you for the rest of your life! You don't deserve that! He's not WORTH that! He's not worth a lifetime of regret!"

The two boys stared at each other, quartz-colored eyes locked on green, for a long moment, then Draco abruptly turned away again, his eyes slamming shut and both hands coming up to clench in his pale, fine hair. He stood that way, fighting for control of himself as Harry looked on, his body still trembling, until finally he took a deep, shuddering breath and, opening his eyes, stared down at his father sprawled out at his feet.

"Potter-" his voice was a ragged whisper- "if she dies-"

"Do what you need to do, Draco," Harry said quietly. "He deserves death. I'm the _last_ person who would ever tell you otherwise. Only not while he's Stupefied. For your own sake- wake him up first."

For a moment Draco did nothing. Then he gave a barely perceptible nod and trained his wand once again on his father.

"_Ennervate_," he said, in a voice made almost unrecognizable by hate.

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(A/N: Hey! I made 200 reviews! WooHoo! This seems like an opportune time to once again thank all of my reviewers. I don't believe in begging or bribing for reviews at the end of each chapter, but don't think for a minute that that means I don't value or care about the reviews you guys send me- they're the first thing I check for whenever I sit down at the computer! Yes, my name is Kyra and I'm a reviewaholic, lol! But anyway, thanks, whether you're one of my regular reviewers (love you guys!) or whether you've just reviewed once. I appreciate them all!)


	15. Chapter 15: Too Late

Lucius had just opened his eyes when Draco gifted him with a good, swift kick to the ribs.

"Hello, father," he drawled, as the elder Malfoy scrambled up to his knees, snarling. "Time to rise and shine. We're going to have ourselves a little duel, you and I. On your feet."

Lucius glared from Draco to Harry- both of whom had their wands trained steadily on his chest- and back again as he stood. "You really want to take me on…son?" he asked in a low voice.

"With Harry here to make sure you play fair, yes, father, I do. If you try to curse me prematurely, he will kill you. After what you've done to both his best friends, I don't doubt for a minute that he has the will to do so- and neither should you."

Lucius looked again to Harry- and saw death looking back from the green depths of his eyes. Yes, Harry was prepared to kill.

Lucius swallowed hard.

"Well, father?" Draco prompted. "This is how it ends. You are armed, so am I. Harry will not act unless you attempt something dishonorable. So- are you ready to take me on man-to-man?"

The older man's lip pulled back and he met his son glare for glare. Then, without another word, he whipped his wand sharply up and then down in a quick salute.

Draco followed suit, then turned on his heel to pace off the prescribed dueling distance.

Lucius, for his part, turned as well-

And fled.

Harry gave a shout and Draco reacted instantly, whirling back around, thinking that his father was attempting to curse him while his back was turned. When he saw what was, in fact, occurring, he gave a snarl of outrage and fixed his wand on Lucius' retreating back. He saw that Harry had done the same. A look as quick as lightning, and as powerful, flashed between the two boys, and just as Lucius reached the door he had been making for, they cried with one voice,

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

The two jets of green light emitted from their wands merged into one before hitting Lucius in the back, sending him sprawling forward onto the floor where he lay as he had fallen, utterly still.

For a moment, EVERYTHING was utterly still- Harry and Draco both deep in shock, trying to process what had just happened so quickly. Then,

"Oh my God," Draco breathed, and staggered backward. He would have fallen if he had not fetched up against the banister of the stairs. He was ashen- the palest Harry had ever seen him, and that included the time he had very nearly bled to death, thanks to Harry himself.

"Malfoy," Harry said, and then, more gently, "Draco-?"

Draco turned toward Harry then, his eyes so huge they seemed to take up half his pale face. "Potter," he whispered, "check him, will you? I can't."

Harry believed this. It appeared to be all Draco could do to hold himself upright at the moment. He advanced warily on Lucius, wand still out and trained on the body, ready for anything- all his previous encounters with dark wizards had taught him that there was no such thing as too much caution in situations like these- but deep down, he knew, just as Draco seemed to, that it was over. Lucius was not playing dead.

This was the real thing.

Reaching the body, Harry kicked Lucius over onto his back and stared down for a long moment into the glazed and totally lifeless eyes. Then he dropped to one knee and checked for a pulse; there was none. Seizing a corner of Lucius' black cloak, he flipped it up and over the dead man's face, concealing it. He turned back to Draco, who, he saw, had sat down heavily on the lowest step and was hunched forward, elbows on his knees and face buried in his hands.

"Draco."

There was no response. Harry stood and approached the blond boy, who did not look up. "He's dead."

Draco sucked in a long, shuddery breath and finally raised his head. His eyes, when they met Harry's, were haunted.

"I looked up to him," he whispered.

Harry said nothing; he could not think of a thing to say.

"All my life," Draco continued, "I looked up to him. I idolized him. I wanted nothing more than to please him, to be like him, to…to make him proud. And he was nothing but a fucking coward, a coward to the end! I didn't want to curse him in the back…I had no choice, he- he couldn't even face me like a man. God, Potter. And I'd still be looking up to him if it weren't for…for last year, if it weren't for…oh, bloody hell! Hermione!"

He launched himself from the step he'd been sitting on, moving so fast that he appeared to materialize at her side as if he'd apparated there. By the time Harry had fully registered the fact that he'd moved at all and had turned toward where they'd left Hermione, Draco was in the process of standing with her once again cradled securely in his arms.

"Come on, Potter. We have to get out of here! Now!"

And without another word he was running for the front door. Harry, right behind him, waved his wand at the double doors, causing them to fly open just before Draco reached them.

"Thanks, Potter," Draco said, not looking around or breaking his stride. He took the manor's front steps two at a time and then was racing across the grounds, toward the gate past which they could portkey back to Hogwarts. He didn't even miss a beat when he felt Hermione's arms come up and clasp loosely about his neck, just muttered "oh, thank God!" and then murmured softly to her as he ran, "that's it, sweetheart, stay with me now, we're almost there."

Then he was skidding through the gate, turning even as he did so to watch Harry's approach- he had fallen a short ways behind, despite his best efforts to keep up, and no wonder, really- even with Draco's pain-reducing spell he had to be in agony, running with at least one broken rib, and, Draco suspected, probably more like two or three.

As Harry reached him, sinking to his knees with both arms clasped protectively about his body, breath coming in rapid, pained gasps, Draco fumbled the portkey out of his pocket and went down on one knee beside Harry, shifting Hermione in his arms so that he could get a secure grip on Harry as well as on her. She seemed to realize something of his quandary and tightened her arms about his neck, making his job slightly easier.

He smiled into her hair. "Hermione? You with me, love? You awake?"

"Mmh."

"Good. I want you to try to _stay_ awake now, okay? We're nearly there. All we have to do now is portkey and we'll be back, we'll be…home. So just hold it together for a minute longer, all right? Hermione? _PLEASE _stay awake now, stay with me- Hermione?"

He felt her nod against his chest, just before another shudder ripped through her body.

"Potter," he said through suddenly clenched teeth, "grab the portkey. Right now."

Harry pried one arm away from his body and did so, grimacing. His head fell forward onto Draco's shoulder, his jet black hair mingling with Hermione's. He held onto the egg cup as if for dear life as Draco placed it against the smooth skin of Hermione's cheek.

"Hold on, both of you," Draco said- then, "activate."

00000

Draco landed hard on his back at the top of the stone front steps of Hogwarts. Though the wind was knocked out of him by the rough landing, he instantly scrambled to his knees, looking frantically about for Hermione. He located her some distance away, lying face-down, halfway down the steps. Her dark hair was fanned out about her head, and she wasn't moving.

"HERMIONE!" Not pausing to see where, or even whether, Harry had landed, he scrambled on his hands and knees down to where she lay. Bending close over her, he gently pushed her hair back from where it fell across her face. "Hermione?" his voice was a strangled whisper- "Hermione- Goddamn it, I told you to stay awake! Shit! Hermione…please." He rolled her onto her back, gathered her into his arms, and struggled with her back up to the top of the steps.

Laying her flat on her back on the landing, he slipped one hand beneath her head to cushion it and with the other, began stroking her cheek, his tears again beginning to fall unchecked onto her still face.

"Malfoy," came a voice at his elbow. He raised his head to see Harry there, staring down at Hermione, ashen-faced.

"Potter," he croaked, "go get Snape. Tell him- the poison…smells sweet, like licorice…but tastes foul…takes two hours to show effects. I think it's a pretty new potion- maybe one of my father's original creations. Tell him if he knows what it is- if there's an antidote- to bring it, quick!" Still Harry stared at the lifeless form of his friend, seemingly in shock. "Potter, for God's sake, go- NOW!"

With a great, shuddering breath, Harry stumbled to his feet and made for the front door. He was bent nearly double, with one arm wrapped tightly about his middle, but though his jaw was clenched and his face betrayed the excruciating pain he was in, he still moved remarkably quickly. In a second's time he was through the door and gone. Draco knew that he himself, being for the most part uninjured, could doubtless move even faster, but he couldn't go. He could no sooner leave her there than rip out his own heart and leave it lying on the cold, hard stone.

"Hermione," he whispered; "oh God, please wake up." He fumbled his wand out of his robe one-handed, the other hand still cushioning her head. Placing it against her chest, he again murmured "Ennervate," just as he had back at the manor. Her eyelids fluttered and she gave a tiny moan; that was all. She had to be really far gone, he realized despairingly, in order for the spell to fail to revive her.

Harsh sobs began to wrack his body. Gently easing his hand out from beneath her head, he laid himself down beside her and buried his face in her chest, his whole body convulsing with the power of his sobs. "Hermione," he gasped, "don't leave me here!" Suddenly he remembered a quote from a book he had read earlier in the year in Muggle Studies class, which he had finally enrolled in, after years of shunning it, in order to learn about the culture that had produced the woman he loved. The book was an old muggle romance called "Wuthering Heights". He had found himself identifying surprisingly well with the story's protagonist, Heathcliff; a brooding loner who had somehow managed to win the love of a most remarkable woman.

Now, tightening his arms about Hermione, he groaned, "do not leave me in this abyss where I cannot find you! Oh God, it is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!"

A second later he jerked his face up with a gasp of surprise, feeling a feather-light touch on the top of his head. Hermione, amazingly, had regained consciousness and was stroking a hand gently through his hair. She smiled when he met her eyes- she didn't appear to be in pain an longer; only very, very tired. She let her hand fall back to the ground.

"Wuthering Heights," she whispered; "a bit melodramatic…don't you think, Malfoy?"

"Hermione," he breathed, cupping her face in both his hands.

"Don't compare me to Catherine," she said then, very seriously. "I never liked her much. She had a good thing and she let it go, and then spent the rest of her life whining about it. Whereas I-" with a great effort she raised her hand again and lightly caressed his cheek- "I have no regrets. And if our time together came at a price, that's to be expected, really. Most good things do. It was-" she paused as pain flashed briefly behind her eyes- "it was worth it. I love you, Draco. So, so much."

"No," Draco choked out; "Hermione, please no. Don't do that. Don't say goodbye!"

Tears started in her eyes. "I can't…fight this anymore," she whispered sadly, and he saw that indeed, the light was fading from her eyes again. "I'm so sorry I…couldn't be stronger for you…I would have loved to marry you. But I'm weak-" the tears escaped then, though she tried to blink them back, and rolled down the sides of her face to lose themselves in her hair as she gazed up at him.

"You are NOT weak," Draco said fiercely. "You are the strongest, bravest, smartest, most beautiful and independent woman I know. Do you think I would accept any less for my wife?"

She smiled up at him through her tears. It was a sleepy smile- her eyes were growing heavy-lidded…

"Wait," he cried desperately. "Hold on, love, just a moment more- I have something for you. Wait-" He groped for his wand where he had dropped it on the steps, and finding it, pointed it in the general direction of Gryffindor Tower and muttered, "_Accio!_" He had just time to lean down and plant a kiss on the tip of Hermione's nose before he was alerted by a whizzing noise and, reaching up, snatched a tiny object out of the air with the same precision he had always used when catching the golden snitch. This object was no bigger than a snitch; it was a tiny, black velvet jewelry box.

"Hermione, look," he pleaded, holding the box in front of her face so that she couldn't help but see. She blinked slowly, once; twice- and seemed to regain at least a measure of focus in her eyes.

"Draco…what-?"

"Shh- just look." He popped open the box, revealing the ring within. A single, pear-shaped diamond graced a plain, slender platinum band. The stone was not large- but it was flawless, and in impeccable taste. "What do you think?"

She took a deep, hitching breath, clearly rallying herself to speak. "Draco, it's…beautiful. But you shouldn't give it to me. Keep it; you'll find someone else for it. I don't want you…to waste your whole life mourning me. It's not-" and a tiny smile flitted across her face- "it's not practical."

Draco's face literally contorted for a second with agony; he looked quickly down and away, not wanting her to see his pain. Why burden her with it now? When he spoke, still looking away, his voice was hoarse with emotion. "This ring belongs to you, and no one but you," he said, and raising her left hand, slid the ring onto her finger.

_Oh God Oh God,_ he thought despairingly, glancing wildly toward the closed front door of the school, _where in the HELL are Potter and Snape?_

Glancing back down at Hermione, he saw her eyes had again drifted almost completely shut. "NO!" he cried, grasping her by the shoulders and shaking her. _Keep her talking!_ His mind screamed frantically, and he cast about desperately for a topic.

"Hermione, tell me- tell me-"

"What?" Her voice was barely audible.

"The wedding," he said, his eyes lighting on the sparkling stone on her finger; "tell me about our wedding. Every detail. Whatever you want. Name it and it's yours."

"Wedding?" she echoed, in a faint, puzzled voice.

"Yes," Draco half-sobbed, his voice now tinged with hysteria. "Girls love to plan weddings, right? Pansy had her wedding to me planned halfway through first year!"

"Oh…right. I suppose so."

Draco got the distinct impression that she was simply trying to humor him now. (_I should have posed her an arithmancy problem instead,_ he thought distractedly.) But let her humor him. He didn't care. Just so long as she kept talking…. "So, what do you want?" He racked his brain for the components of a wedding. "The…dress, the flowers, the…the cake, tell me!" Again he cupped her face in both his hands, leaning over her so close their noses were nearly touching, willing her to keep her eyes open, to keep looking up at him.

A small frown creased her brow as she appeared to think it over. "I want…a cliff, by the sea, at sunset," she whispered finally, and even as close as he was, he had to strain to hear her. "I…want…two best men, because I could never choose…between them."

_Oh Jesus, _Draco thought sickly, _Ron- she doesn't know about Ron_….

"I want a dress…that floats out behind me- silver-white like your hair…a dance, to our song…and…and a…cake, shaped like…a stack of books…because it all…started in…the…"

And then it happened. Her body gave one last convulsive shudder, her hands clenching into fists- she gasped and her eyes flew wide, as if in surprise, as if, despite everything, she really HADN'T actually expected it to come to this- and then the light in them was, completely, all at once extinguished, and with one final exhalation, she went perfectly still.

"No," Draco breathed, stunned.

"Oh.

God.

No."

Suddenly, violently, he pulled her into his arms in a crushing embrace and began rocking back and forth with her, not even realizing what he was doing, out of his mind with grief.

"Hermione," he gasped, "don't go. PLEASE DON'T GO!"

Then he did something he had never done before, in his entire life, as far as he could remember. He began to sing.

"Sometimes when we touch…" he choked out, his face hidden behind the dark curtain of her hair, "the honesty's too much, and I have to close my eyes and hide…I want to hold you til…til…I…" he couldn't go on. Laying her gently back on the ground, he reached down with one shaking hand and closed her lifeless eyes, then lifted her left hand, with the engagement ring flashing on her finger, to his mouth and kissed it tenderly.

Then, still clutching her hand, doubled over with a grief so acute he felt it as a searing physical agony, he did something else he had never done before.

He screamed. And screamed. And screamed.


	16. Chapter 16: Unexpected Help

When Harry and Snape burst out of the front door some thirty seconds later, Snape clutching a small crystal vial in one hand- the antidote he had been working feverishly to prepare ever since Lucius had called him to the manor a week ago to ask for his input on a new poison he'd been brewing, hinting with malicious glee that he had a very special victim in mind for it- Draco was still screaming.

Snape, instantly realizing that they had arrived too late, shoved the vial back into a pocket of his robes and threw himself to the ground beside Draco, who was on his knees, rocking back and forth and continuing to cry out his soul-deep anguish. He had dropped Hermione's hand and both his own hands were fisted in his silvery hair. Snape pulled him into a crushing, immobilizing bear-hug, then managed to drag him a few feet away where he held him tightly, murmuring to him, trying to comfort him. But Draco remained oblivious to his mentor's attempts to calm him; he was gone far beyond reason- nearly beyond sanity.

As for Harry, he hurled himself down beside Hermione and began checking for breathing and pulse, muttering fiercely all the while, "no, not you too, I'm not gonna lose you too, Hermione, NO! I won't let you go, do you hear me, I will NOT let you GO!"

Finding neither breath nor pulse, he fought back the urge to follow Draco's example and begin screaming, then struggled to remember what he knew about CPR, which did not exist in the wizarding world, but in which he had taken a course for free over the summer, at the Little Whinging Community Center, as an excuse to get out of the house and away from the Dursleys.

_Fifteen chest compression to two breaths,_ he thought, willing himself to calm down and think clearly. _Stop and recheck pulse once per minute. Okay, I can do this; I have to. Won't lose her too, won't lose her too, won't lose her too_…

With this one thought running through his mind, he straightened her body, tilted her head back and, sealing his mouth over hers, began the process of breathing for her. After two breaths- as deep as he could make them, considering that breath was, for him, in short supply at the moment- he pulled back, pushed Draco's shirt up, exposing her chest, fought to clear his mind from the dizzying wave of fury that threatened to engulf him at the sight of the bruises and welts that covered her, and, placing one hand atop the other between her breasts, began the compressions.

_One_…_two_…_three_…_four_…_he had lost Ron; he would not, COULD NOT lose her too_…_five_…_six_…_seven_…_eight_…_the pain in his ribs was tremendous- almost overwhelming- but he wouldn't stop- he would do this forever if he had to_…_nine_…_ten_…_eleven_…_twelve_…_his vision was darkening around the edges- but he wouldn't give up_…_thirteen_…_fourteen_…_fifteen_…_BREATHE!_

"Potter, what in the bloody hell are you doing!" Harry had never heard the potions master swear before. Glancing in his direction, he saw that Snape was staring at him, aghast. _Of course_, he thought distractedly; _he's wizard born and bred. He doesn't understand-_ but he couldn't waste time, or breath, talking. He began the compressions again.

"C…P…R…" he managed to grunt out between chest compressions; "It's a…Muggle…tech…nique. I'm…forcing…her heart…to keep…beating…and blowing…air…into…her…lungs." As if to punctuate what he had just said, he bent down and gave her two more deep breaths.

"And this will revive her somehow?" Snape asked in disbelief; "Muggles know how to revive the dead?"

"Only…if they've…just died…and only…if it's…done right…and not…always…even then…but sometimes…sometimes…" Though he was unaware of it, tears began coursing down Harry's face as he spoke these words. Sometimes- sometimes- this had to be one of those times, it HAD to.

Not allowing himself to succumb to the white-hot agony in his ribs that seemed to burn brighter with each compression, not stopping to think about just how high the odds were stacked against him, he fought. The Boy Who Lived fought against death with every fiber of his being. He fought for his best friend's life, which meant more to him than his own.

And it wasn't enough. He surely would have failed even so…if he had not unknowingly received help from a most unexpected source.

Ron.

00000

"Hermione? Hermione. Wake up. Hermione." That voice- she should know that voice. She tried to place it, but couldn't.

She was lying on her side, curled tightly into a fetal position, on a hard, cold surface- the ground? Eyes still closed, Hermione rolled onto her back with a soft groan and turned her head toward the voice, which was coming from just above her and slightly to her left. She felt a hand stroke her hair gently back out of her face, and instantly a feeling of safety and contentment washed over her. _Draco,_ she thought foggily;_ he was leaning over me just a moment ago. What happened? Did I fall asleep? And why did he seem so_…what had he seemed, exactly? The details were hazy. Worried? Her brow furrowed as she struggled to remember. No, more than worried- frantic. He had been…he had been…_CRYING_…

Suddenly, her memories returned in a flood; her captivity, the poison, Draco's rescue, the portkey, lying at the top of Hogwarts' front steps and Draco…desperate…pleading…the ring…and then pain, such _pain_-

"DRACO!" she cried out, sitting bolt upright. Instantly strong arms wrapped around her. "Steady there…guess again," came a voice in her ear, and now she recognized it; it was a voice she knew and loved, but not Draco's voice, no. Funny, she didn't remember him being there when she was lying on the steps, but this was definitely-

"Ron?" she whispered, finally opening her eyes to be met by her best friend's deep blue gaze. "Where's Draco?" And then, glancing quickly around, eyes widening, "Where- where are _we_?"

"Between," Ron said simply, as Hermione took in the fact that they appeared to be nowhere; nowhere at all.

It looked as if they were in a black void. If she hadn't felt the solid ground beneath them, she wouldn't have known it was there. She could see no walls, no ceiling. All was featureless darkness that seemed to stretch on forever. She shouldn't have been able to see Ron, because there was no light source whatsoever as far as she could tell. Yet she could see him; clearly, brightly against the blackness, because- and this was _really_ disconcerting- he was glowing softly. And so, she realized, looking down, was she.

"Between…what?" she asked, in a very small voice, with the distinct feeling that she didn't really want to know the answer.

"Between life and death," Ron replied, "although if I know you, you'd probably guessed that already." He gave her a small smile, but there was a deep underlying sadness in his cobalt eyes.

"The poison," she whispered, one hand automatically rising to press against her throat; "oh my God." And then, as full comprehension dawned, "Oh, Ron- oh no- what happened to _YOU?_"

"Lucius," Ron said flatly- then added, almost as an afterthought, "the bastard."

With a choked cry, Hermione flung her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. For a long moment she stayed that way, just drinking him in, his warmth, his solidity, his scent, his hand gently, soothingly, stroking her hair. Ron. One of her two best friends, since practically forever. Since he and Harry had braved a troll to save her during first year. They had only been eleven- just children- but they had risked their lives for her, a bossy little know-it-all girl they hadn't even liked. And now after all the years of friendship, years of loyalty and camaraderie, of intrigue and adventures, of spectacular fights, and overall, of deep and fierce and abiding love, now here was her cherished friend. Dead. Because he had once again risked his life to save her- and this time, had lost it. To Lucius Bloody Malfoy.

A scream of anger and despair escaped her before she could quell it, and, balling her hands into fists, she pounded them against Ron's broad chest, raging against the injustice of it all. And still Ron simply held her, silently stroking her hair.

It was a long time before she recovered enough composure to speak again. "So what happens now?" she asked at last in a shaking voice, raising her head to again meet his eyes. "You said we're between life and death. Where do we go from here?"

"Different places," Ron answered quietly. "I'm going on- but you're going back."

"How can that be?" she whispered, her brow knitting in confusion. "I can't come back from the dead."

"But you're not dead," Ron said, now adopting his patented long-suffering tone. "At least- not irreversibly. I've just got through telling you- you're between. You can, and will, go back from here."

Now Ron could almost see the wheels in her head turning as she took in what he had just said. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Wait a minute. _I_ can and will go back? What about you? I'm not going back without _you_."

Ron shook his head. "It's not an option for me, Hermione. You and I arrived here under very different circumstances. I was Avada Kedavra'd; there's no cure for that. But you were poisoned, and there IS an antidote- as soon as you're back in your body you can take it and be healed. Harry's even keeping your body ready for you. I think he senses somehow that you'll be back. I don't know how he's doing it- some sort of Muggle technique, I heard him say. Pretty amazing, really. He's making your heart beat for you, and breathing air into your lungs. I can even overlook the fact that he's pushed your shirt up to your chin and every time he does that breathing thing it looks like he's snogging you-"

"Oh my GOD!" Hermione cried out, horrified. "But Draco- he's right there- and he won't understand, he's never heard of CPR- what must he _think!_"

Ron gave her a long, measured look. Then, "Hermione," he said, very slowly and clearly, as though attempting to put an important concept across to a very small child, "you just DIED in his arms. Trust me when I say that he neither knows nor cares what Harry is doing at the moment. It's lost on him. He's-" Ron's voice trailed off and his eyes went distant and unfocused for a minute. He stared past Hermione, plainly seeing something that she couldn't. Then, abruptly, his attention returned to her. "Screaming," he said; "he's screaming."

"You can see him?" Hermione demanded. She turned to look in the direction Ron had been staring, but saw nothing except unending blackness. "How? I can't see anything."

Ron smiled at her, but his eyes remained solemn. "The same way I can see what Harry is doing to you," he said. "There are a lot of things I can do here that you can't, because my soul- my essence- is all here, and yours isn't. Harry is keeping you tied to the physical world, thank God." He shrugged. "I could take off and fly right now if I wanted to- there's only one thing that you can do at this point that I can't; go back."

"Oh," Hermione said, in a very small voice, as though the wind had been knocked out of her. Then, as tears began to stream freely down her face, "I don't want to go back without you, Ron!"

Ron began caressing her face, wiping her tears away with his thumb as she had done for him on the night, over a year ago, that she had fallen from his broomstick as they returned from killing Voldemort. "Listen to me," he said softly. "Malfoy is screaming. Screaming, Hermione. Does that strike you odd? It should. Because Malfoy doesn't scream. He didn't scream when he was under Cruciatus, or when Harry stabbed him nearly to death- but he's screaming now. Because he thinks he's lost you. I used to have doubts as to whether he truly loved you- was even _capable_ of loving you the way I do. And when he said those cruel things to you, I was ready to tear him apart. But now I understand what he was trying to do and Hermione- I don't doubt it anymore. He loves you so much he's gone half-mad with grief, and if you don't get back there post-haste, I think he's gonna end up in St. Mungo's- permanently, if you know what I mean. He needs you, Hermione. If he's going to keep his sanity, he needs you back."

Hermione dropped her face forward into her hands and began to sob in earnest. "Oh Draco," she gasped; "oh, RON! How…can I…choose? I don't…want to…leave…either of you…alone!"

Ron pulled her back up against him, so her head rested on his shoulder. "There's something you should know about Harry as well," he said, once her sobs had subsided a bit. "He's hurt, Hermione. Pretty bad." She stiffened in his arms as he continued, "this thing he's doing to keep your heart going- he's doing it with three broken ribs. Every time he presses down on your chest, he's hurting himself more. Every time he breathes into your lungs…can you imagine how hard it is to breathe for _oneself_ with three broken ribs? Let alone for another person too? By all rights, he should have passed out by now- or worse- but he's fighting to stay conscious, to keep doing this…incredible thing that's going to allow you to go back. That's how much it means to him; that's how much YOU mean to him. Hermione-" he slid his hand under her chin and tilted her face up, forcing her to meet his gaze again- "he needs you too, more than ever now that I'm…going on. They both need you far more than I do. I'm not afraid. I caught a glimpse of where I'm going, right after I died- I could have gone straight there, but I wanted to check on you and Harry first. When I saw you, I realized that you'd be coming through here and would need me, so I waited- and making the decision to wait was one of the hardest things I've ever done. I don't know that I COULD have done it for someone I loved any less than Harry or you. Because what I saw was amazing…indescribable. It's right for me to go there- to be there- and it's right for you to go back. I'm sure of this. Trust me?"

Hermione swallowed hard, tears still streaming from here eyes, then, very slowly, she nodded.

"I caught a glimpse of where Lucius was going, too," Ron said then, a look of grim satisfaction coming over his face. "He came through here not long after I arrived, and he wasn't happy about it. Was being dragged kicking and screaming, in fact." The expression on his face made Hermione think better of asking him just exactly WHAT had been doing the dragging. He couldn't suppress a small shudder as he added, "I wouldn't be happy about it either, if that were my destination. He's earned it, though; it's nothing if not just."

They sat in silence for a moment more, Hermione letting her forehead drop once again to Ron's shoulder, suddenly exhausted and overwhelmingly sad- more sad than she had thought it possible for a human being to be.

Abruptly, however, Ron shook his head as if to clear it, and an expression of determination came over his face. "Right, then," he said, getting to his feet and helping her up after him, "we don't have much time. Harry's strength is fading fast- he's gonna pass out soon, and once he stops doing the- what do you call it again?- right, the CPR- once he stops doing the CPR, you'll no longer be able to return to your body. Just a couple of quick things before you go. Give Harry a message for me- tell him not to worry about me, and not to waste a single moment feeling guilty or blaming himself- you know how he can be. But I made my own decision and I stand by it; in the same situation, I would do it again, as I know he would have done it for me. Tell him he has to be twice the best friend to you now- I'm counting on him for that. And give a message to Malfoy for me as well-" Ron was talking faster now- "tell him to remember what I said to him at the top of the marble staircase on the night he was resorted. Tell him if he ever- EVER- hurts you again, I will know, and so help me, I will find a way make good." He grinned down at her. "Got all that?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"That's it, then- except for one last request from me to you."

"Anything, Ron," she managed to choke through her tears; "anything you want."

"Just a taste of what might have been."

And as she opened her mouth to ask what he meant by that, he bent his head and kissed her- fully and deeply. Her eyes widened and she stiffened momentarily in shock, but in the next instant she relaxed into the kiss, letting her eyes fall shut. If Ron's last wish was to have a kiss from her, then by God she would give him a kiss to remember- wherever it was that he was going.

Her hands came up to wind through his hair as his arms wrapped tightly around her and pulled her closer, deeper into the kiss. She had never before kissed anyone but Draco, and Ron's kiss was entirely different. It was quite possibly the sweetest kiss she'd ever experienced. Draco's kisses were full of fire, passion and urgency- when he kissed her he revealed a depth of feeling that he went to great pains to conceal at all other times. When Draco kissed her, she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he loved her madly- even though he had never said the words but twice, and both in desperate situations; on the night they had gone after Voldemort, and again today, when he had found her so near to death. She had always loved kissing Draco for this reason- it was thrilling to feel some of his iron control slip, allowing, against his will, those carefully buried emotions to show through. It caused her to shed her own inhibitions in return- kissing Draco was intoxicating. It drove her mad with desire.

But this- kissing Ron- it was like the kiss of a noble young knight out of some Arthurian legend; a kiss both loving and pure; both romantic and chaste. Again, it was- there was no other word to accurately describe it- _sweet_. It was slow and infinitely tender- exploratory and yet, at the same time, almost…shy. There was no pent-up emotion behind it, because, unlike Draco, Ron's tendency was to wear his heart on his sleeve for all the world to see. So his kiss was uncomplicated and inherently boyish- something Draco's kisses had never been.

It was that very boyishness- and the knowledge that now he would never be anything else, would never progress past the age of seventeen- that caused a fresh wave of grief to crash over her, so intense that her knees buckled beneath the weight of it and she would have sunk to the ground had not his arms been wrapped tightly about her.

At this, Ron finally broke the kiss. "Thank you," he said simply, and though she could feel his body still pressed, warm, against hers, his voice sounded as though it was coming from a hundred miles away. She opened her eyes, and gasped- the light with which Ron had been suffused had gone out. He was only visible now as a dim silhouette against the greater darkness.

"Ron-?" Her voice had an unmistakable edge of panic to it.

"It's okay," he said, and she thought she heard a smile in his voice; "look down."

She did, gasped again, and slammed her eyes shut. Her own body was now shining so brightly it was practically blinding. It seemed that she had somehow taken Ron's light and added it to her own. Letting her head fall against his shoulder, eyes still shut, she stammered, "what just- how-?"

She felt Ron rest his chin atop her head. "I just passed you all my energy," he said quietly- his voice seemed to be fading more by the minute; "my life-force. I don't need it anymore, but you will- you'll need it all to get safely back. And now it's time for us both to go." She felt him straighten up, and she did likewise, though she was now shaking so badly it was a miracle she managed to support her own weight. She kept her eyes closed, not wanting to dazzle herself with her own light again. Ron withdrew his arms from where they had been wrapped around her, instead laying his hands gently on her shoulders. He dipped his head and placed a tender kiss on her forehead.

"I love you, Hermione," he murmured in her ear; "never forget that. And don't cry for me. We'll see each other again, I promise, just not for a while. Not for a while. Now, go." And he did something that caught her completely off-guard; he gripped her shoulders tightly for a second, and then thrust her forcefully away from him.

She fell backward, but instead of hitting the ground, she just kept falling. "RON!" she screamed frantically, but there was no reply. Just the endless blackness through which she was falling- falling- falling-

Then, THUD.


	17. Chapter 17: Salvation

"Potter, cease what you are doing this instant!"

Snape's voice was tinged with frustration and the beginnings of panic. He could plainly see that Harry was doing himself more damage with each passing moment, and for what must surely be a lost cause- Muggles, raise the dead- honestly! He wanted to put a stop to it, but he dared not let go of Draco, who was still wild with grief. He feared that without his strong arms to immobilize him, his former star Slytherin would do something…well, drastic. Though he couldn't bring himself to put his fear into words, even mentally, he could see clearly that Draco. Wanted. Death. So he held on with an iron grip, and was powerless to put an end to what was, in his opinion, Harry's self-destructive foolishness.

As for Harry, he ignored his professor completely, no longer having the energy to reply. His head was spinning- the world tilting dangerously around him, and large black starbursts were now blooming before his eyes, but he would not- COULD not- stop.

Forever…he would do this forever…if he had to….

_Thirteen_…_fourteen_…_fifteen_…_BREATHE!_

And then-

Oh, and then.

Harry had just given her one breath and was pausing, gathering himself with difficulty for the second, when her entire body jerked violently beneath him, her head coming up off the stone landing and then slamming back down onto it, her eyes simultaneously flying wide open. Instantly she focused on him and held his gaze as she dragged in a great, shuddering breath- then she struggled up onto her elbows.

"Harry," she said hoarsely, "Ron sent me back."

But before Harry, who was staring at her in utter blank astonishment, had a chance to gather his wits sufficiently to think of a reply, her face contorted with agony. Her hands flew to wrap around her midsection and she fell back to the ground, literally writhing with pain. She managed to turn onto her side, and pulled herself into a tight little ball, struggling to breathe.

"Hermione!" Harry cried raggedly.

"Harry," she managed to choke out as he bent close over her, straining to hear and understand; "p-poison. Help. Please!"

"Professor!" Harry screamed as horrified comprehension dawned. "The antidote- oh God, Professor PLEASE!"

Snape was beside them in an instant. Years of working in dangerous undercover situations had taught his body to react quickly when called upon, even if his mind was- as it now most assuredly was- reeling. He still could not grasp the concept that she was actually alive, yet he was fumbling in his robes, pulling out the vial of antidote with shaking hands, yanking out and casting aside the tiny jeweled stopper, grabbing the suffering girl's head and pulling it around to face him just as roughly as Lucius had done when forcing her to drink the poison in the first place (time was of the essence after all, and she was thrashing wildly), holding the vial to her lips and pouring the precious liquid down her throat. He then gathered her into his arms, smoothing Draco's shirt back down, covering her body, holding her tightly as her poison-induced shudders slowly began to subside.

"Potter," he gasped over his shoulder, "-Draco!"

Harry, understanding perfectly the two-word command, turned toward Draco. What he saw caused his eyes to widen, aghast. The moment Snape had let him go, Draco had crawled the few feet to where his wand lay, seized it, and was now, as Harry looked on horror-struck, raising it slowly to his temple.

With a feeling of sick dread in the pit of his stomach, Harry realized that Draco, too overcome with grief to even realize what was going on with Hermione, must be preparing to Avada Kedavra himself.

"NO!" he shouted wildly, and threw himself toward Draco, at the same time pulling out his own wand. "Accio!" he cried, as it became apparent that he wouldn't reach the blond boy in time. Draco, who had his head bowed forward and eyes squeezed shut against what he was about to do, was caught completely off-guard as his wand went flying out of his hand and into Harry's. He jerked his head up and his pale eyes, lighting on Harry now clutching his wand, narrowed to slits, blazing with rage and despair.

"Potter," he snarled, and launched himself at Harry. He was weak and slow, but Harry, hurt and exhausted as he was, was weaker and slower still, and so failed to get out of the way in time. Draco crashed into him, knocking him backward- over the edge of the steps. The two boys tumbled, locked together, rolling over and over each other, all the way down.

Harry, with three ribs already broken, had the extreme misfortune to land hard on his back, cracking his head against the bottom step, with Draco thudding heavily on top of him. He felt, quite distinctly- though distantly- everything seemed strangely distant all of a sudden- the sickening crunch that meant yet more ribs had cracked, one of them (though of course Harry did not realize it at the time) punching straight through into his lung.

As Draco heaved himself up and off him, Harry attempted to sit up- but all he managed to do was to raise his head a couple of inches, and even then he could only hold it up for a second or two before it fell heavily back onto the step.

"Ow," he said weakly.

Draco was still furious. Now kneeling beside Harry, he seized the front of the injured boy's robes, thrust his face very close to Harry's and spat out, "you had no fucking right, Potter!"

Harry blinked hard, trying to focus on the Draco-blur of silver hair and snarling mouth that was swimming sickly before his eyes. He managed to drag in a shallow breath- a task which he suddenly found to be nearly impossible- and whispered, "couldn't…let you do it, Malfoy. Hermione would…kill me."

This had the effect of enraging Draco still further. "Are you trying to be funny, Potter? Is that your idea of a fucking JOKE? Hermione is dead!" And he gave Harry a vicious shake.

Shaking a person whose jaggedly broken ribs are currently causing massive internal damage is not a good thing. Harry had opened his mouth to reply, but now all that came out was a great spout of bright red blood. It drenched the front of his robes, and Draco's bare chest, and caused Draco to let go of him, suddenly horror-stricken.

"Aw, fuck, Potter, FUCK!"

Harry's clouded green eyes registered only a distant, mild surprise. "Malfoy," he croaked, "I don't feel so good."

"Potter…shit." Draco's head was spinning. He pressed the heels of both hands to his temples, trying desperately to calm himself and think of what to do next. It was useless. Rational thought was beyond him; he was adrift in a sea of grief over Hermione and a new and piercing remorse for what he had done to Harry. He might have stayed that way for hours, eyes closed, rocking slightly, had Harry himself not snapped him out of it, reaching up- a monumental effort- and grabbing his wrist to get his attention.

"Malfoy," Harry whispered, when Draco's slate colored eyes snapped back open to meet his, "you have to get Ron. I was…gonna do it, but- I don't think I can now. You gotta apparate back to the manor- but make sure you take the portkey with you…so you can get Ron home." he paused as more blood bubbled up out of his mouth and flowed, a crimson river, down over his chin- "bring him home. Please. I promised him. Can't leave him there…can't…Draco. Swear."

Draco felt his rage dissolving. All he felt now was empty and lost. Lost without Hermione. Lost without a reason to go on. At least retrieving Ron's body was a task he could set his mind to. And Harry was right; they couldn't just leave Ron there.

"It's all right, Potter, I'll go," he said. "I'll go now. Harry. I swear."

Harry's hand fell away from his wrist, and the green eyes fluttered closed.

"Christ, Potter, I'm sorry mate," Draco muttered, fully aware that Harry, now deeply unconscious, could no longer hear him. He would not have apologized otherwise.

00000

After retrieving his wand from where it lay on the ground near Harry's prone form, Draco trudged slowly back up the steps, three simple thoughts cycling over and over in his mind. _Get Snape to help Harry. Find the portkey. Go get Ron. Get Snape to help Harry. Find the portkey. Go get Ron._

After completing these tasks, he could find a secluded place- go deep into the forbidden forest, perhaps- and finish what he had started before Potter had interfered. As he climbed the steps, his shoulders were slumped, his head bowed forward, his feet dragging. He looked weary, and defeated- something he had NEVER looked before- and twenty years older than he was. He looked much the same way as he felt; like an empty shell of a human being; like a walking corpse.

Reaching the landing, he raised dull eyes to search first for Snape and then for the portkey which would carry him back to the manor. He found Snape first, but what he saw then wiped all thoughts of the portkey from his mind; caused his eyes to widen and his jaw to drop, and all the air to leave his lungs in a sudden forced rush, as though he had just been hit in the stomach by an invisible bludger. Because Snape was kneeling next to Hermione- and Hermione was- SITTING UP.

Draco stood stock still, staring, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Was Snape somehow holding her in that position? No. The Potions Master was rubbing her back gently in calming circles, but appeared to lending her no support whatsoever. She was sitting up on her own- legs drawn up to her chest, her arms clasped around them, head resting on her knees, her face obscured by her tumultuous hair. And her whole body looked to be shaking violently, as though- as though she was crying.

But that was impossible. Utterly impossible.

He dragged in a deep, hitching breath.

Sensing his presence, she raised her head. Her eyes, huge and dark in her pale face, still streaming silent tears, latched onto his.

"Oh my God," he said, his voice halfway between a groan and a whisper.

He took a single, faltering step toward her, and his legs went out from under him. He fell heavily to his knees on the cold, hard stone of the landing, barely registering the pain this caused. His eyes were still locked on Hermione's.

Impossible.

He had watched her die.

He had died with her.

"Oh my God," he said again.

And she started toward him.

He felt himself listing to the side and flung out an arm to steady himself as he watched her crawling- impossibly- towards him. Other then that, he found himself unable to move, either toward her or away, and he wasn't sure at the moment which direction he would move in if he had that choice. He wasn't sure if what he should be feeling right now was wonder- or horror. Because she was dead. She was dead. She had to be dead.

In the end, it didn't truly matter which of those emotions he ought to have felt, because he felt neither; his mind was still too busy trying- and failing- to grasp the reality of what he was seeing. And then she had reached him, stopped only inches away from him.

"Draco," she whispered, and raised a hand toward his face, the engagement ring glittering on her finger- and his decision was made then, unconsciously; he flinched back and away.

"No," he said in a choked voice, as hurt blossomed in her eyes- those gorgeous warm honey-brown eyes, those eyes he had watched the light fade out of, those eyes he had closed with shaking fingers; "no. You're not real. You're just a trick- a cruel trick." His voice broke as he cried out, "stop torturing me!"

She dropped her hand back to her side, and dropped her eyes from his. "Draco," she said again, head bowed forward, hair falling, disheveled, across her face, and his name came out as a sob. Her voice sounded as lost as he felt. He realized that, close as she was, he could feel the heat radiating off her body; could smell her, even- blood and sweat and salty tears, but under it all there was still her familiar, sweet smell; the Hermione-smell he had thought was forever lost; she smelled of strawberry shampoo and old dusty books and chocolate and ink and peppermint humbugs.

But how could this be? HOW could this BE?

"I came back for you," she whispered, "because you were screaming."

Distantly he realized that in fact, this was absolutely true; he had indeed been screaming. And he also realized that there was no possible way she should know that. Then again, there was no possible way she should be here telling him that she knew this impossible thing because she was dead, damnit, and the dead don't come back no matter how one screams for them- do they? DO they?

She was speaking again.

"I couldn't leave you like that," she whispered, still looking down, her face still hidden behind her thick curtain of hair; "not screaming. Not like that. I love you too much- I- I-" her voice dissolved into sobs. Wrapping her arms tightly around herself, she cried as if her heart would break.

And Draco reached out.

It was when he heard her say she loved him that his conscious decision was made. To hear that voice he had thought never to hear again, speaking those three most precious words- _I'll take her_, he thought; _I don't care anymore what she is. If she's an illusion I hope she never fades. If she's a dream, I don't want to wake up. If she's a demon sent from Hell to torment me, she's still better than the alternative; better than the wasteland my life would be without her in it. And if she's real- oh God, if she's REAL-_

He reached out a trembling hand, cupped her chin and tilted her face up toward his. "Hermione," he breathed, as their eyes met once again, and a jolt like electricity passed through his body at the feel of her skin, warm under his fingers and the sight of her eyes; the light, the life, the love in her eyes. His other hand came up then too, seemingly of its own accord, and suddenly he was touching her everywhere; running his hands over her face, through her hair, down her arms encased in the baggy, overlong sleeves of his shirt, grasping both her hands. "You're real," he whispered in an awed voice, unaware that tears were now flowing freely down his face; "you're bloody real!" And he pulled her suddenly, almost violently to him, his arms wrapping about her fiercely, clinging to her with the desperation of a drowning man seizing hold of his last chance at salvation.

"I love you, Hermione," he gasped, "I love you I love you I love you and oh GOD, don't ever leave me again!"

Then he buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her, and they cried together.

00000

Snape climbed slowly to his feet, eyes on the young couple locked in a desperate embrace. He was completely and utterly shell-shocked. Hermione Granger had been dead and Potter had brought her back. Impossible as it seemed, he had watched it happen- and anyway, the proof was right before his eyes; the girl, very much alive, clasped in her lover's arms, neither one of them looking as if they ever planned to let go.

Potter had done this, but how- _how_? He had to know. And speaking of Potter- Snape glanced around- where was he? He wasn't anywhere in sight, and yet he couldn't have gone far, not in his condition. Snape ran a hand quickly through his black hair; an anxious gesture. Something was wrong here- very wrong. Where could Harry have gone? WHY would Harry have gone anywhere? All he had asked him to do was- shit. Oh shit. All he had asked him to do was look after Draco. Who had been, at the time, completely deranged. And who had just come climbing up the steps (which Snape couldn't recall him ever descending, come to think of it)- COVERED IN BLOOD.

Oh, no.

Snape walked slowly, fear like a ball of molten lead in the pit of his stomach, to the edge of the landing, and looked down.

"Oh dear God, no! Harry, NO!"

He failed to realize, in his distress, that he had just used Harry's given name for the first time in his life.

He virtually hurled himself down the steps. Falling to his knees beside Harry, he checked for pulse and breathing, which thankfully were both present, though weak and irregular. Harry's chin and throat were scarlet with blood, the front of his robes stained and tacky with it, and a small puddle of blood was collecting beneath his head where he had smacked it hard on the bottom step.

Snape quickly concluded that the blood, except for what was pooling beneath Harry's head, appeared to have come from his mouth, and thus indicated severe internal injury. Muttering every swear word in his extensive vocabulary, he seized the front of Harry's robes both-handed and ripped them down the middle, exposing the boy's chest, which was one massive and ever-spreading purple-black bruise.

Briefly, he closed his eyes against the painful sight. Then, bending close to Harry, he spoke to him in a low, urgent voice. "I don't know how to do what you did for Miss Granger, Harry, so don't you die on me. That is NOT an option. Do you hear me? Do not die on me, Harry Potter!"

Standing, he pulled his wand from within his voluminous robes and magicked Harry onto a floating stretcher. As he raised the stretcher with a gesture from his wand, Harry groaned softly. Brow furrowed with effort, he lifted his right arm, which had been dangling limply over the edge of the stretcher, and laid it protectively across his mangled chest.

"Ow," he whispered for the second time, wincing and clenching his jaw.

_Ow?_ Snape thought distractedly; _look at the boy, the state he's in, and that's all he has to say for himself, Ow? He's rather similar to Draco in that way, isn't he? Yes- more like Draco than I've ever given him credit for, I think. _Coming from Snape, who loved Draco like a son, though he rarely showed it outwardly, this was high praise indeed.

"Harry?" Snape said, leaning over him, dark eyes intent on the boy's pale, strained face. "Are you awake? If so, open your eyes."

Brilliantly green eyes blinked slowly open, focusing with difficulty on Snape's face which was (though he did not know it) haggard with worry. Harry wetted his lips with his tongue. "Professor?" he croaked.

Snape's eyes closed again momentarily as he released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Yes, Harry?"

"Hermione-?"

"She's fine. I'm-" he paused. He had almost said, _I'm more concerned about you at the moment, _but why risk alarming the boy? "I'm sure she'll be just fine," he repeated lamely.

"My- my wand."

Snape cast about on the ground and found the wand lying nearby. Picking it up, he slipped it gently into Harry's right hand, which was loosely curled on his chest.

"Thanks," Harry whispered. Then- "professor?"

"Yes?" Snape asked again.

"You call- called me Harry." The green eyes held an expression of mild inquisitiveness- but they appeared to be losing their focus. A dark red stain was spreading out like a halo on the white fabric of the stretcher beneath Harry's head.

"Listen, Potter," Snape growled, his fear mounting again as he began to climb the steps, the stretcher floating beside him, "I'll call you bloody Roxanne if you want me to, just stay awake now, okay? Potter- okay? POTTER!"

Harry's eyes had drifted shut again and he was no longer responding, though the faintest ghost of a smile lingered about his lips, suggesting that he had heard, and appreciated, Snape's last comment.

"Shit," Snape breathed; "shit, Potter, hold on."


	18. Chapter 18: Back Into The Fire

Draco and Hermione really might have remained in one another's arms, kneeling on the cold, hard stone for hours had not Snape crossed the landing just then, heading quickly for the school's massive front door, bending low over the floating stretcher beside him and murmuring constantly to its occupant, who was wholly unresponsive.

Hermione raised her head from where it lay against Draco's shoulder and immediately stiffened, her eyes going wide. She stared in horrified silence for a second, then cried, "HARRY!" and, disentangling herself from Draco, scrambled to her feet. Draco leapt up after her, steadying her as she swayed dizzily, but then she shook him off and half-ran, half-stumbled over to the stretcher.

"Oh no, Harry," she breathed, "Harry, no. No." She caught his hand between both of hers. "What happened? Professor, what HAPPENED?"

Snape, however, was in no mood to waste time on explanations.

"Potter needs to get to the hospital wing, Miss Granger," he said curtly, "and so do you, for that matter. Please stand aside; time is of the essence to Harry's survival. I trust that you will follow me up to hospital, with Draco's assistance if necessary."

Hermione, in shock, her eyes huge and locked on Harry's face, still did not move.

"Stand aside, girl, if you value your friend's life!" Snape cried, more harshly than he had intended- but Potter was DYING here; he could sense this was true. With a wave of his hand, he caused the great double doors to the school to crash inward and, as Hermione stepped shakily backward, out of his way, swept hurriedly through them, Harry floating, near lifeless, beside him.

00000

She had lost Ron. The thought that she might now lose Harry as well was too much. Her legs gave out and she sat down hard on the landing.

"Hermione!"

Draco was there in an instant, still on his knees, wrapping strong arms around her from behind.

"You heard professor Snape. Let's get you up to the infirmary. You're-" he faltered, swallowed hard- "you're not well. Can you stand?" She didn't reply. Instead, she let her head fall back against his shoulder with a deep, shuddery sigh. Her eyes were still open, but glazed over with shock.

"Draco," she said, sounding dazed and mildly surprised, "I hurt. Everywhere. And I can't lose Harry. Ron's dead because of me and if Harry- if-" her eyes fell shut, and she gave a tiny moan. "Oww, I hurt so bad."

Each word was like a stab to Draco's heart. She wasn't even making sense, but one thing was perfectly clear; she was in horrific pain, both physical and emotional. He squeezed his eyes tight shut against the threatening tears; he had to be strong for Hermione, and for the work that was still ahead of him; he hadn't forgotten about his mission to retrieve Ron. Breaking down now would not help anyone. "Come on, love," he murmured gently; "we've gotta get you upstairs."

He stood and pulled her up with him, his arms still locked around her from behind. Once they were both on their feet, he turned her gently to face him. "Hey bookworm," he said softly, "can you walk? Or should I carry you?"

She blinked and her eyes cleared a bit; she seemed to come back to herself somewhat. "I- I think I can walk," she said hesitantly, "but Draco? Don't let go."

"Never." His voice was emphatic. "I'm never going to let you go again."

00000

She only made it halfway up the marble stairs before losing consciousness again; suddenly, silently beginning to crumple, her eyes rolling back as she slumped bonelessly against Draco, who fortunately had, true to his promise, kept one arm firmly about her and so was able to prevent her from falling completely by first tightening his grasp, pulling her hard against his body, and then scooping her easily into his arms right from her half-standing position.

"Hold on, love," he whispered, and ran up the stairs toward the infirmary.

He reached the long ward and deposited Hermione on a bed, unnoticed in all the fuss that was surrounding Harry at the moment. Madam Pomfrey was rushing about in a state as close to panic as the brisk little mediwitch ever got; Snape, glowering fiercely, was, astonishingly enough, refusing to leave Harry's side, and McGonagall and Dumbledore had just arrived on the scene, McGonagall firing off questions rapidly at Snape, who was snarling at her, as Dumbledore bent close over Harry, studying him with a grim expression on his face. So far none of the adults seemed to have registered Draco's presence in the ward at all, which was how he wanted to keep it; the odds were very good that if they discovered him there, they would prevent him from going back for Ron. Or they would try, at any rate. Nothing was going to stop him from seeing this last mission through, both because he had promised Harry and because he knew how much it would mean to Hermione, even though she currently was in no state to tell him so. He knew. She already blamed herself for Ron's death- she had said as much out on the landing- so imagine the agonies she would suffer if his body were not recovered. She didn't need that pain; she had enough to be going along with, thank you.

When he pulled away from her, removing the warmth of his body, she shivered, and he noticed that her forehead was now beaded with perspiration. _Oh God_, he thought despairingly, _it's the fever- that elf said she was sick and now her fever's back- or more likely, it never rightly left. God, I don't want to leave her like this._

But he had to.

He shook out the blanket that lay folded at the foot of the bed and covered her shivering body with it, then bent and kissed her forehead.

"Be okay, bookworm," he murmured; "for me. I can't live without you, so just rest and- and be okay. Please."

And straightening up, he turned to go.

"Draco."

He whipped back around at the sound of his whispered name. Hermione was looking up at him, her pale face creased in a frown. She attempted, weakly, to push herself into a sitting position, but winced and fell back against the pillow. Draco could see in her fever-bright eyes that she was in a world of hurt.

That knowledge hurt him too, right down to the core.

But he hid this from her, being, as he was, adept at hiding any and all emotion, should he choose to do so. Smiling wanly, he sank back down onto the edge of the bed and clasped her nearer hand in his.

"Hey love," he said quietly. "There's something important that I have to do right now- but I'll be back as soon as I can. You can count on that."

He saw fear kindle in the wide, dark eyes he loved so very much. God, he hated seeing her look like this.

"Don't go," she said.

He leaned closer, until their noses nearly touched. "I want nothing more than to stay with you," he replied, "but even so, I have to go. Hermione- I have to get Ron. He was left back at the manor. We should never have left him in the first place- it was just bloody wrong. But you were…we had to get you back here fast, we were desperate, it was all that mattered at the time. Now though- I've gotta go back for him. It's the only right thing to do. There's no choice. Please say you understand."

"Ron," she whispered, stricken; "oh, God." Twin tears spilled from her eyes; Draco wiped them away before they could streak down the sides of her face and get lost in her tangled hair.

"You understand?"

"Yes." Her voice was barely audible. "But Draco, I'm scared. I've got a bad feeling about this."

"I'll be careful and quick. I'll come right back to you, love. I promise. All the demons in hell couldn't keep me away. I'm not gonna lose you again."

"I wish you didn't have to go."

"But you realize that Ron must be recovered?"

"Yes."

Her eyes were slipping slowly shut. He realized that she was fighting hard to stay awake- to stay with him. It was time to go- to let her rest and to get his mission over and done with so he could return to her and never leave her again. He bent and kissed her lightly on the lips by way of farewell.

Instantly her eyes flew wide, sudden terror standing out in their dark depths. She sucked in a sharp breath and flattened herself back against the pillow as if trying to escape him.

"Hey- bookworm, what's wrong?" he asked- surprised, puzzled and hurt. She had reacted in much the same way when he had first Ennervated her, back at the manor. What the hell was going on? She had seemed to accept his explanation about the breakup- hell, she had accepted his proposal of marriage- so what was causing her flinch away from him like this? Why was it that, whenever he caught her off guard, she seemed to be, well, afraid of him?

He would have dearly liked to know, but Hermione wasn't talking. A veritable flood of tears seemed to have been unleashed from her eyes and, without another word, she turned her back on him, curling herself into a tight little ball on her side, and sobbed brokenheartedly.

Draco stood up. "I love you, Hermione," he said. "You have no idea how much. I'll be back just as soon as I can, and then you are going to tell me what's going on. I'm not going to stand by and watch you let whatever it is tear you up inside."

With that he turned, grabbed a folded blanket off the foot of the bed next to Hermione's, and headed, somewhat stealthily, for the door. Reaching it, miraculously unhindered by any of the adults in the room, who were still completely engrossed in trying to save Harry's life, he ducked through it- then stopped. Just as no one had realized that he had been in the ward, no one was aware now that Hermione was there- and though her condition did not rival Harry's in seriousness, still she did need attention; she did need help.

Pulling out his wand, he pointed it at the ceiling over Hermione's bed and muttered a short spell. A bright green distress flare shot from the end of the wand to hang in the air over where Hermione lay crying. A shout from McGonagall told him that he had been successful in alerting the room's other occupants to Hermione's presence. That was all he needed to know. He whirled about and took off down the corridor at a dead run.

He fled through hallways, down the marble stairs, and out the school's front doors, calling upon all his reserves of speed. He had no doubt that once the teachers in the infirmary put two and two together, they would realize he was making a break for it, and he would be followed. On the front landing, he cast about desperately for the egg cup; he had dropped it upon arriving from Malfoy Manor with Harry and Hermione, and it had no doubt rolled away somewhere. _Please God, let me find it quickly,_ he prayed frantically. He remembered that he had landed at the edge of the steps, and Hermione halfway down them. Was it possible that the egg cup had rolled down the steps and into the grass? He virtually flung himself down them, moving so fast that he skidded in something slick on the bottom step- _holy shit,_ he realized, horrified; _Potter's blood_- and landed on his hands and knees, already searching, searching for that gleam of white ceramic- THERE!

It lay in the thick green grass that bordered the gravel path upon which he was now kneeling; the path that led from the foot of the steps down into to the grounds. He snatched it up and thrust it into his pocket, then shot back to his feet, ignoring the pain in his skinned knees. It was a very small pain compared to some he had experienced in the past. He half turned, making ready to run again, and then-

The school's front doors crashed open and Snape stood there, on the landing, breathing hard, his dark eyes fixed on Draco.

Draco turned back to face him, adrenaline surging, breath coming in shallow, rapid pants, disheveled silver hair hanging in his eyes, poised for flight.

He took a step backward, then another. "There's something I have to do, professor," he said flatly, "and I'm not going to let you stop me."

Then, before Snape could even reply, he turned and ran- more then ran, he virtually flew- down the path toward the edge of the Hogwarts grounds, where he could apparate to the manor. He heard Snape shout his name and was vaguely aware that the older man was racing after him- but Snape lacked Draco's speed-born-of-desperation, and his voluminous professor's robes hampered and slowed him. Draco passed under the grand stone archway that designated the beginning- and end- of the school's grounds-

and vanished mid-stride.

Snape's frantic, last-ditch effort to halt him, a hastily fired Impedimenta spell, streaked through the air where Draco's solid body had been a fraction of a second before. Having hit nothing tangible, it quickly dissipated.

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Draco arrived some feet from the iron gateway of manor's grounds, his body still in motion since he had apparated while running. He stumbled forward and fell, once again, to his knees. He stayed kneeling on the ground for a long moment, bracing himself with his hands, his breath coming in ragged gasps, heart pounding against his rib cage, waiting for the massive adrenaline rush to pass.

Finally, he got slowly to his feet, still panting and feeling slightly shaky all over. He looked through the gate at the imposing manor beyond- his one-time home- took a deep breath, and walked through it. Once on the other side of the gate, he leaned back against it and murmured a complicated spell his father had taught him; a spell that would scramble the manor's apparition coordinates for several hours, in order to throw off pursuit. Only he, his father, and his mother knew how to cast- and remove- the spell. Snape would have to realize where he had gone; now he didn't have to worry about being followed. This done, he pulled out his wand, laid it flat on the palm of his hand, and closed his eyes. Pale brow furrowed in concentration, he worked at pulling up the most vivid images he could- of Ron.

Images that were highly charged with emotion, so they shone clear and bright in his mind. Images of the red-haired boy who had been his bitter enemy for so many years, and had just lately, briefly, been his friend- friend yes, but rival still.

There was Ron in second year, right after Draco had first called Hermione (the girl he would now kill or die for without hesitation) a mudblood- trying, in his impulsive and childish rage, to curse Draco with a broken wand, which had backfired. There was Ron hunkering down next to a blood-soaked, barely conscious Draco as Harry and Hermione had taken on Voldemort, asking, "how you holding up, Malfoy?" There he was aiming his killing curse squarely at Voldemort's groin- the moment in which Draco had first begun to actually respect him. There was Ron shaking hands with him at the top of the marble staircase right before Draco's resorting, both of them clad in white pajamas; Ron had just told him that if he ever hurt Hermione, he would rip off his balls and feed them to him. Draco had believed him. Ron earlier this year, as the Gryffindor Quiditch Keeper, triumphant as he thwarted yet another Slytherin goal- Draco had seen this upside-down, as he tumbled toward the ground thanks to a particularly vicious Slytherin bludger, just before everything went black. The rage in Ron's dark blue eyes when Draco had dared to speak harshly to Hermione as she lay cradled in the redhead's arms after fainting; his voice low and dangerous as he had said, "she doesn't need this right now, Malfoy; back the fuck off." Ron laughing after he had once again trounced Harry in one of their chess marathons, then turning to Draco and saying, "let's see what you've got, Malfoy." And finally Ron as he had been just earlier that day; full of life and purpose when he had questioned the house elf and realized what Draco himself, in his distraught state, had not; that they had the means of going to Hermione's rescue right there before them, thanks to the little creature. If Ron had known in that instant- known absolutely and without the shadow of a doubt- that going after her would result in his own death while preventing hers, he still would have done so. Of this Draco was sure.

Once he had Ron fixed firmly in his mind thanks to these myriad powerful memories, almost as vivid, almost as solid, as though he had been standing right there in front of him, he opened his eyes and whispered to his wand, "point me."

The wand did not hesitate to give him a clear direction. Now all he had to do was follow it to Ron.

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Draco dropped into a crouch beside Ron's still, lifeless form. He lay just as he had fallen, his eyes closed by a sobbing Harry before he had rushed to Draco's aid. The closed eyes did not mask the mild expression of surprise on Ron's face; not fear or horror, no; just surprise- a look that said, _well bugger me, I never expected it to turn out like this._

"Aw, Weasley," Draco said, laying a hand, in an astonishingly tender gesture, on Ron's cool forehead, "you deserved better than this, mate. Christ, but you deserved better."

Gently, he moved Ron's outflung arms to lay them across his chest, then prepared to levitate Ron out of the mansion and back to a point beyond the gate where he could portkey to Hogwarts with him. Suddenly, however, he stopped, head cocked to the side, thinking hard. He had remembered something; Harry's invisibility cloak. He had dropped it on the floor of his bedroom and then forgotten all about it at the sight of Hermione half-dead, suspended from the canopy of his bed. That had truly been a sight to drive all other thoughts from his mind; a sight that he suspected would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life. As for the cloak, presumably it still lay right where he had let it fall.

He knew that the cloak was the only thing Harry owned that had once belonged to one of his parents, and how much that meant to his friend.

It was just upstairs.

He remembered the promise he had made to Hermione; that he would return as quickly as he could. And so he would- but not before completing this one final task. He had left Harry's most prized possession behind; he had to get it back. It was not negotiable. Besides, it should take all of ten minutes more.

And anyway, it would make it easier to get Ron back to the school, because Draco knew he could remotely activate the portkey from right there within the manor, as long as it was being used to transport only inanimate objects. And Ron was now an inanimate object. This lapse in the manor's portkey security wards had been deliberately engineered by his father, specifically for cases when a dark arts object, or even a body, had demanded quick removal from the grounds. It was fitting, Draco thought, that this time it should be used for the purpose of recovering a body, rather than disposing of it.

After he had the cloak, he himself could apparate back.

So he slipped the egg-cup into one of Ron's cold hands, carefully closing the fingers about it. Standing, he shook out the blanket he had brought from the infirmary for just this purpose and covered Ron with it from head to toe. Aiming his wand at where he guessed the porktey was beneath the blanket, he muttered the spell that would remotely activate it.

Sure enough, Ron's blanket-shrouded form vanished in a brief flash of blue light. Draco only hoped that Snape would still be outside the school and would therefore discover Ron quickly once he appeared on the landing. It would be horrible if some hapless first-year were to stumble upon him- but not as horrible as leaving him here would have been.

As for Draco, he would recover the cloak, then make his way back out of the manor, past the iron gate that signified the boundary of Malfoy land, and apparate back to Hogwarts. The short walk he would then have to make from the edge of the school grounds up to the castle itself would be a small price to pay for the peace of mind that would come from the knowledge that he had sent Ron's body safely on ahead and would be bearing, when he returned, Potter's precious cloak. Even if Potter were dead by the time he arrived back, which he realized with a cold, clenched feeling in his gut was a distinct possibility, the right thing to do was still the right thing to do- and he would rest easier knowing he had done it.

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Scooping up the invisibility cloak from where it lay, a silver pool of fabric just inside his bedroom door, Draco turned quickly to leave. He had lingered in his room just long enough to rinse Harry's blood from his chest in the adjoining bathroom and Accio himself a soft black shirt from his wardrobe- but now he wanted nothing more than to get the hell away from this room, where so much of his childhood had been spent but which now made his stomach turn over with queasy revulsion. Any fond memories he may have associated with this place in the past, such as poring over the well-loved books which even now sat stacked on his desk or diving from his balcony into the crystal waters of the pool below, had been erased by the fact that his cherished Hermione had been tortured nearly to death- no, screw nearly; she HAD been tortured to death- right here.

He never wanted to see this room again as long as he lived.

And yet-

Before he could make the hasty retreat he had planned, something caught at the corner of his eye- something he had missed on his way hastily to and from the bathroom- something unfamiliar in a room full of familiar things. He turned slowly back toward it and, even from across the sizeable room, recognized it immediately for what it was.

A penseive.

The bed was flanked by two massive green marble fireplaces; the penseive sat upon the mantelpiece of the further one.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, and completely against his better judgment, he crossed over to it and stood, staring at its lazily swirling contents with a dull, horrified fascination. He had never kept a penseive, and so he concluded, correctly, that this one had been used by his father during the days in which he had held Hermione captive in this room.

Which meant, of course, that he had to look.

Never mind that just the sight of the penseive filled him with sick dread and a strong desire to shatter it on the floor and run; run and not look back. If this thing could show him what had happened to Hermione over the past three days to reduce her to the state in which he had found her, then he HAD to look.

He swallowed hard- his throat was suddenly painfully dry- then reached up with hands that he noticed, with some distant surprise, were shaking slightly, and brought the penseive down from the mantle. He carried it across the room and placed it carefully on his desk. Planting his hands firmly on either side of the shallow bowl full of his father's swirling, milky white memories, he leaned close over it.

He closed his eyes for a moment, not ready to fall into the penseive just yet. He took a deep, steadying breath first, bracing himself.

He knew perfectly well that what he was about to see would be bad.

But he did not- COULD not- begin to imagine just how bad.

He opened his eyes.

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(A/N: Hey, all! 300 reviews- thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou! That is so totally awesome. Even though I don't individually respond to each review, I cherish them all!)


	19. Chapter 19: Showdown At Dusk

With an anguished cry, Draco stumbled backward, away from the penseive, throwing his arms up to shield his face, as if attempting to physically ward off the horrendous images that had just bombarded him.

"Aw Jesus," he gasped, as his legs began to give way; he grabbed for the edge of the desk, but missed, and fell hard to his knees, which screamed in protest at the shabby treatment they had been getting just lately. "Jesus Christ, Hermione," he muttered, dropping his head into his hands; "oh, bookworm. Oh no. If I had known…I'd have killed him slower for you."

And quite suddenly he found himself doubled over, being violently sick onto the floor.

Several long moments later, using the edge of the desk and the back of a chair for support, he dragged himself to his feet once more and stared in utmost horror at the once again innocent-seeming milky white contents of the bowl. Dear sweet God.

He had just watched himself…HIMSELF…brutally, savagely, mercilessly, repeatedly, raping the woman he loved. There had been other atrocities too, yes, but- but nothing touched that. He just barely managed to fight down a new wave of nausea.

"I gotta get a hold of myself," he croaked.

He turned away from the penseive, leaning back against the desk, breathing hard, hands balled into fists, staring sightlessly across the room as he fought to regain control of his emotions. After a moment, he inhaled and exhaled deeply, and ran both hands through his silvery hair. He closed his eyes and when he opened them, tears were standing in them, but otherwise it seemed that he had recovered his usual cool demeanor.

His eyes swept the spacious bedroom from one side to the other. "I renounce my father," he said, his voice low and dangerously flat. "I renounce my mother. I renounce this house and everything in it." Behind him, the penseive suddenly and violently exploded. Shards of the bowl flew like shrapnel, not a few of them slicing stingingly through Draco's skin. He turned slowly back to face the desk, watching the opaque substance that was his father's memories slowly disperse with nothing left to contain it. He trailed one finger through it before it vanished completely.

"Well," he said, in a quiet, almost strangled voice, "at least now I understand why she flinched."

At that point, the massive wrought iron chandelier that provided most of the room's light rent itself from the beamed ceiling with a metallic scream and crashed to the floor. Draco, turning his back once and for all on the desk and the shattered remnants of the penseive, surveyed it with apparent mild interest. "That's right," he said calmly, as though answering an unspoken question, "I renounce this house and every last God forsaken thing in it."

And stepping around the wreckage of the chandelier, he crossed the room to the door with purposeful stride, stopping only for an instant to pick up the invisibility cloak, which he had flung across the foot of the bed on his way to view the penseive.

As he left his childhood bedroom for the final time, the two enormous fireplaces cracked from top to bottom, with nearly human groans of agony. Draco did not look back.

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He walked slowly down the long hallway of his wing of the manor. His face was expressionless, but his jaw was set in a tight line and his hands, at his sides, were clenching and unclenching spasmodically. Each light fixture he passed under shattered violently; each heavy wooden door he walked past blew inward off its hinges, splintering under the force of his rage.

He barely seemed to notice the havoc that was being wreaked by the near-palpable waves of rage and hatred that were radiating out from the very core of his being. Like Harry, and most wizard and witch children, he had discovered, when still very young, that odd things seemed to happen around him when he was in distress (though of course, unlike Harry, he had always known the reason behind such phenomena). However, that this raw destructive energy should reemerge when he was nearly grown was very unusual. Controlling one's magical essence was, after all, foremost among the many important skills that students at Hogwarts learned.

But what Draco had seen in the penseive had pushed him well beyond the last artificial barrier he had erected, under the careful instruction of his teachers, to keep his magic safely contained. That barrier had crumbled; his power was unleashed, and it was out of control.

Which suited Draco just fine.

It was, after all, accomplishing exactly what he wanted to accomplish. He wanted this house razed to the ground. He would have torn it down with his own two hands if necessary, brick by brick and stone by stone, but if his powers should opt to do the work for him, then so much the better.

He paused for a moment at the threshold of his library, which was now devoid of a door, and gazed into the room that had once been his favorite retreat. As his eyes, dark gunmetal gray with wrath, swept the room, every one of the thousands of books contained within it spontaneously combusted.

"This isn't enough," he said aloud, in the same eerily calm voice he had used back in his bedroom, as flames reflected in his eyes; eyes that, for all his outward semblance of calm, were those of a caged beast. "I'm going to need to kill something." He spoke with flat assurance. "I'm going to need to kill something or else I will go bloody…fucking…insane."

Then, leaving the burning library behind him, he moved on, in an almost trancelike state, down the hall.

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As Draco reached the imposing, ornately crafted front doors of the manor, they blew outward off their hinges, tumbling over and over in the air, and hit the ground at the foot of the manor's front steps. It was then, as he stepped out onto the landing of his ancestral home under the darkening sky, that Draco was confronted by the full consequences of his decision not to portkey back to Hogwarts with Ron's body.

For ranged out in a rough semicircle around the base of the steps stood some fifteen or so black-robed figures; his father's most loyal followers. It appeared that they had been converging on the manor but had stopped short when the doors had exploded outward, dropping into defensive stances and whipping out their wands.

Draco now surveyed them with the same outward dead calm he had displayed since leaving his bedroom. Inwardly, his mind was racing as he sought to understand what had brought them here. Then he realized; it was dusk on the third day since Hermione had been taken. They had come for the ceremony in which his father had planned to kill her- and Draco himself- cementing his position as their undisputed leader by proving that his hatred for his errant son was stronger than any blood ties between them.

His attention was suddenly caught by one figure in particular; a slender figure he could tell was a woman merely by the shape of her under her robe. She raised pale hands and thrust her hood back away from her face, revealing a cascade of fair, silvery hair exactly like his.

_Mother._ She had known what his father had done to Hermione; known and done nothing to stop it; known and approved. Like as not, he thought, the polyjuice potion had been her idea; she always had been devious that way. And he had seen in the penseive, too, that she had visited Hermione herself on more than one occasion, always bringing with her more torture, more anguish, for the already sick, already pain-wracked girl.

Now she was surveying him coldly through ice-blue eyes so like his own. They stared at one another for a long, spiraling moment, until the figure next to Narcissa also lowered its hood, shaking out a thick mane of raven hair shot through with silver. Draco's gaze went now to the woman standing beside his mother, one arm protectively, bracingly about her waist.

Bellatrix. So that was where his mother had been all afternoon; with his mad bitch aunt. Probably prettying themselves up for tonight's festivities. Right, a day at the spa, because one must look one's best when witnessing the ritual murder of one's only child, after all. He remembered vaguely that he had wondered, earlier- a lifetime ago, it seemed- before Hermione had died in his arms, before he had found out just what had happened to her here in this evil place, where his mother had been.

Well, no matter. She was here now, and mother or no mother, he would show her no mercy.

Narcissa's voice rang out through the dusk, trembling with wrath. "Draco! Why were there anti-apparition wards on the house? Where is your father? Traitorous, ungrateful child, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

Draco didn't answer. His eyes, which so often shone silver in the fading light of day's end, were flat and dark with rage. He reached up slowly and pushed his hair back, out of his face; he would need to see very clearly if there were to be any slight hope at all of surviving the coming confrontation.

Narcissa's gaze left him then, and she looked around at the others grouped about the base of the steps. When she spoke again, her voice was commanding, through it shook even more than when she had addressed him; still with anger, but also, now, with grief.

"This upstart boy, who is no son of mine, has killed my husband!" she cried to those around her, her voice that of an aggrieved queen. "I can see it written all over his accursed face! Now all of you, throw back your hoods as I have; let him see the face of vengeance before we send him to the deepest pit of hell!"

In a single, seemingly choreographed movement, every hood was pushed back. Draco surveyed them all, meeting the eyes of each one. There were the fathers of his childhood friends, Crabbe and Goyle. There, the father and older brother of the girl who had been intended for him practically since birth, Pansy Parkinson. Over there Nott and Avery, men with whom he had sat down to dinner numerous times growing up, both at his own table and theirs; and over there- over there was Blaise Zabini's father and beside him, Blaise himself.

He was the only one present of Draco's own age, and this confirmed in Draco's mind the fact that Blaise had indeed been working for Lucius; had been his contact within Hogwarts. No doubt the seventh-year Slytherin had been invited tonight to receive special honors for the part- a very large part, Draco was sure- that he had played in bringing about Hermione's capture.

Each of these, and all the others, met Draco's gaze with glares of unmitigated hatred.

And Draco did something that none of them would ever have expected, outnumbered as he was more than a dozen to one.

He smiled.

His desire to kill had been answered, after all- and how. Even though the outcome didn't look so good for him, damned if he wasn't going to take these bastards with him. A lot of them. ALL of them, if possible.

And he thought that, given the current state of his mind and his powers, that just might _BE_ possible.

Behind and above him, every window in the house blasted outward, raining glass shards down on those gathered below. All except Draco. His magic, even while causing the destruction of the house, was also protecting him from the effects of it.

Narcissa screamed her outrage into the gathering night.

And then all hell broke loose.

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Hours had passed.

Draco groaned; a low sound of pain beyond words; almost beyond coherent thought. He wrenched his eyes reluctantly open.

He was lying face down in lush grass; his head was turned to the side and, blinking hard, he recognized the sweeping front lawn of the Malfoy estate. Several yards away, he could make out the iron gate he needed to get through before he could apparate back to Hogwarts. About half a dozen bodies littered the grass between him and it.

Gritting his teeth with effort, he pushed himself slowly over onto his back where he lay, spread eagled, gasping up at the stars. Stars which were, by the way, nowhere near as bright as they should have been; they were dulled and obscured by an angry red glow coming from Draco's left. 

He turned his head in that direction and was greeted by the sight of the manor burning fiercely in the night. The entire enormous building was ablaze; dark, oily smoke rising into the sky and blotting out the stars altogether in that direction. It looked as though large chunks of the once-majestic house had already collapsed in on themselves, and as he watched, the entire roof caved in with a terrific crash, sending sparks flying hundreds of feet into the air.

The faintest ghost of a smile touched Draco's lips.

He was enjoying watching the house burn.

He could have watched it all night.

And truthfully, considering the amount of effort and pain involved in merely rolling himself over, the thought of actually getting to his feet held little very appeal right now.

Except-

_Hermione._

He remembered another time, not so long ago, that he had lain on his back, suffering, just like this- only Hermione had been there then, cradling him, comforting him. She wasn't here now, though; she was miles away, and in just as much pain as he was himself. And he had promised that he would return to her, just as soon as he could.

It was a promise he meant to keep, now that he had completed his business at the manor. Which meant-

That he had to get up.

He attempted to push himself into a sitting position, and was spectacularly unsuccessful. Groaning, he then rolled back over onto his stomach- this gave him much better leverage- and pushed himself slowly up onto his knees. He stayed like this, on his hands and knees, head hanging so low that his fair hair brushed the grass, for a long moment, as his head was swimming and he was afraid that if he moved again too soon, he might well black out.

"Hermione," he croaked through clenched teeth, in an effort to keep his focus.

_Have to get back to her_…_have to_….

When the dizzy spell passed, he brought one leg forward, knee up against his chest, foot flat on the ground. Then, wishing mightily that he had something to grab onto for support (but if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride, as his mother used to say with a contemptuous sneer) he pushed himself to his feet with one great heave.

He reeled backwards and almost fell, but managed- just barely- to keep his balance. He would not- COULD not- allow himself to fall to the grass again, because he had a very strong suspicion that he would not be able to get up a second time.

Once he had steadied himself he stood for a moment, swaying slightly, eyes tightly shut and heels of both hands pressed to his temples.

_Get a grip, Malfoy,_ he thought grimly; _you've had worse, so just get a bloody grip on yourself._

But the thing was, he hadn't had worse; if he were to be completely honest with himself, he would have to admit that the screaming agony he was in right now was about as bad as anything he'd endured in the past. He wouldn't go so far as to say that this felt WORSE than when he had been stabbed and Crucio'd, all within a minute's time- but it was as bad. Yes, this was every bit as bad.

For he'd been hit by at least half a dozen curses during the fight- probably closer to a dozen. And these were not the spells employed by his Hogwarts compatriots when they took it into their heads to have a silly little duel now and then; the curses he had been hit with had not tickled him, or given him jelly legs, or made him sprout feathers, or tentacles. No, these had been had deadly serious curses, designed to kill their victims slowly, and with a great deal of pain. Curses that opened bloody gashes where they hit, or caused internal injury; broke bones, or time-released poison into one's system.

Narcissa had deemed him undeserving of a quick, "merciful" death by Avada Kedavra, and had shrieked at Lucius' followers- her followers, now- to "be creative" in which spells they hurled at her son. Ironically, it was this very viciousness on his mother's part, he realized, that had actually saved his life (assuming he made it back to Hogwarts without dropping dead first, anyway); for he certainly could not have been hit by a dozen _Avada Kedavra_'s- or even one, for that matter- and be standing here now.

_You outsmarted yourself, mother,_ he thought, and bared his teeth in what he had intended as a triumphant grin…but ended up looking more like a snarl. Not that there was anyone else left alive to pass judgment. If anyone HAD been present to witness him at that moment, they probably would have turned tail and run, gibbering with fright, because, he realized, when he opened his eyes and looked down, searching the ground for his wand, his snarling face was all of him that was visible at the moment. The rest of him was concealed beneath Potter's invisibility cloak, as his head had been until a minute ago, when the hood had fallen away as he reeled backwards.

He had forgotten that he was wearing it, but now he remembered putting it on. He had done so almost at once, after the first barrage of curses had knocked him sideways over the edge of the landing, causing him to fall some eight feet to the ground and be temporarily hidden from all but a couple of his foes. He had realized that he still had the cloak balled up under his arm, had shaken it out, ducked swiftly beneath it, and vanished from view, eliciting cries of dismay from the two or three people who had witnessed this clever trick.

For just the briefest instant a small part of him had protested that fighting invisible was dishonorable; but he had ignored this assertion and it was gone with the next curse that hit him, fired by one of those who had seen him disappear and had made a quick, keen guess as to which direction he might have taken. Given the choice between remaining visible and trying to wage a "fair fight" when the odds were stacked nearly twenty-to-one to one against him, or taking refuge under the cloak and actually having some slim hope for survival, he would go with surviving, thanks. The others weren't fighting fair; why in the bloody hell should he?

And the cloak HAD saved him; its protection, coupled with his mother's overconfident refusal to allow him to be _Avada Kedavra_'d, had somehow seen him through. If he had remained visible, he would probably have been hit with fifty curses, not just eight or ten; he would be dead for sure.

The sight of his wand lying in the grass nearby brought him back to the present. He stumbled over to it, and not wanting to crouch down to retrieve it, for fear of falling, held his hand out over it and willed it to rise into his grasp. It did so. But it came slowly, falteringly, reluctantly; it did not leap from the ground to his hand as he had expected it to.

This was a clear indication of just how little strength, both physical and magical, he had left.

Suppressing another groan, he took a few, staggering steps toward the gate- then stopped. He had just realized, with equal parts dismay and resignation, that his work here wasn't quite done yet.

"Mother," he whispered, a raw, painful sound. He had to find her body; had to pay her one last courtesy, that he had denied Lucius, but somehow felt he could not deny the woman who had, after all, given him life- for all that she had attempted today to take that life away again.

Well- that, and he wanted to see that the bitch was really dead.

Changing course, he stumbled over to the body which lay nearest him. He recognized Crabbe, even though the man lay face-down; there had been no others among his parents' circle with such an astounding girth. This was good, Draco thought dimly; this would do nicely.

Focusing on Crabbe's large black cloak, he said "_Accio_," in a barely audible voice, and the blanket-sized garment flew into his outstretched hand, ripping at the dead man's throat, where it had been clasped. Then, dragging the cloak behind him on the ground, Draco made his stumbling, halting way from one corpse to the next, searching for his mother. He would find her and cover her; something in the thought of her lying here, exposed to the elements like the bloated Crabbe, repelled him, even after all he had been through in the past few hours.

Yet, he never found her.

He'd found Blaise soon enough, and stood over him for a good long time, staring hard into the glassy, sightless eyes of the boy he had once counted as a friend. "Rotten luck, Zabini," he had muttered at last, before moving on. "You brought it on yourself, though. Bastard."

And he had found his aunt Bellatrix, whom he had not covered; indeed, the only courtesy he had done her was to resist the impulse to spit in her dead, upturned face. He never had liked the woman, even back when he had counted himself among Voldemort's faithful; he had always sensed something mad, feral, and innately rotten about her.

But of his mother, there was no sign.

When he had made a complete circuit of the lawn and arrived back at Crabbe's body once more, he shook his head in mounting panic and started his search again.

The second time he encountered Crabbe without having found Narcissa, his panic was complete. He now cared less about covering her body than just seeing it and proving to himself that she was, in fact, dead. He might well have searched a third time, and perhaps even a fourth, except that he was well aware his flagging strength would not allow it. He'd be lucky even to reach the gate now.

_Where did she go?_ his tired mind was screaming as he staggered toward the gate, which looked impossibly distant. _Did she crawl into the house to die beside father, or did she escape somehow? Where in the bloody hell did she go?_

The thought of his mother out there somewhere, injured but alive, licking her wounds, nursing her hatred, chilled him- not so much for himself, as for Hermione, who had already suffered enough for several lifetimes at the hands of both his vicious parents. But there was nothing to be done about it now…in his current condition, searching any further would be madness. It would guarantee him a lonely death here on the grounds of the home he had renounced.

He made it to the gate, dropping Crabbe's cloak along the way; it slipped easily from between his increasingly nerveless fingers. When he realized this, something clicked in his pain-dulled mind and he thrust his wand into the waistband of his pants, so as not to lose it too.

Passing through the gate, he stopped, reached out a hand to steady himself against it, and gathered all his concentration and energy in preparation for apparating back to Hogwarts. He had to be extra careful, in his weakened and pain riddled state, not to let his focus lapse and end up splinching himself.

When he at last felt ready, he let go of the gate and took a deep breath. He felt as calm and focused as he thought was possible under the circumstances.

Now if only the world would stop spinning like this….

He apparated.


	20. Chapter 20: The Price of Vengeance

He arrived, miraculously in one piece, just outside the school grounds- and fell forward…right into the side of the stone archway that marked the boundary of Hogwarts land. He hardly knew whether to curse the ancient stone structure that he had impacted with such jarring force- or be grateful to it for halting him mid-fall, allowing him to use it as leverage and, with however much difficulty, regain his feet.

This accomplished, he stumbled through it and began his slow and painful progress toward the school, which, from this distance, was just a dim shadow, black against the star-filled sky, with only a handful of lights burning within. It was, after all, the dead of night.

He managed to make it about halfway before the inevitable happened and he collapsed to his hands and knees on the gravel path.

At this point the invisibility cloak, which he had been wearing all this time, became tangled and fell off to his right side, trailing on the ground, though it remained fastened about his throat. As a result, Draco was left completely exposed to sight, except for, oddly enough, a thin band at the base of his throat, which made it appear as though his head and neck were hovering about an inch from his body.

For his part, he was beyond noticing, and, being back on Hogwarts land, there was no longer any need for secrecy anyway. Even if there had been, there was no one around to see him there- yet.

He let his head drop right down to the ground, resting his forehead against the cool, scratchy gravel as complete and utter exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. He was bleeding profusely from a long, deep gash in his side, not to mention several other, lesser wounds. Then there were the non-visible injuries he had sustained.

The world was still spinning. His head was spinning too. If felt as though his head and the world were spinning in opposite directions, the result of which was a faint urge to throw up. Fortunately, he was able to fight off the urge. He didn't want to stay here, prostrated in the gravel, retching. He had to keep moving.

He had to get back to-

"Hermione," he muttered aloud. And then, as he began to slip inexorably down toward delirium, "I have prom-promises to keep. And…miles to…go b'fore I sleep."

It wasn't miles to the school, of course; but it felt like it. It felt like it might as well have been a thousand fucking miles.

Nevertheless, he began to crawl.

00000

Snape was on his way back down to the edge of the grounds. After Draco had disappeared, he had tried several times in rapid succession to apparate to Malfoy Manor, where he was sure the boy had gone, but had been thwarted time and again. Draco, he'd realized, had scrambled the coordinates; it was something that those of Malfoy blood could do. He'd cursed a blue streak, given up, and hadn't tried again. Instead he had walked the path between the castle and the stone arch at least a dozen times since finding Ron just outside the front doors of the school; back and forth, back and forth, hoping desperately to encounter Draco on his way back up to the castle- his mission, which Snape now realized had been to recover Ron's body, long complete. Yet Draco still had not come, and he grew more frantic with each hour that passed.

He was now actively considering embarking for the manor by broomstick, though it would mean flying for the rest of the night and most of the next day as well.

Was that boy ever going to get a piece of his mind, he thought furiously.

Then he saw him.

And all anger fled.

He stopped for just the merest second, staring at Draco- _his_ Draco, his almost-son- in utter horror. It was like the time Potter had come crashing through the window of the infirmary on a pair of lashed-together Firebolt broomsticks; Draco, a good deal more than half-dead, clasped in his arms. Now, as then, he was certain that his heart literally stopped beating for a moment.

He was running, then, before he was even aware of moving at all.

"Draco!" he shouted, "Draco!"

The clearly hurt and exhausted boy, who had been crawling up the path toward the school on his hands and knees, head hanging low, now raised his pale face toward Snape. The two of them locked gazes long enough for Snape to realize just how ill Draco looked; deep dark circles under haunted eyes in a face that was, even for him, far too pale. Then the silver-haired former Slytherin's strength gave out altogether and he pitched forward, sprawling face-down in the path.

"DRACO!"

Putting on an extra burst of panic-induced speed, Snape reached him in an instant, hurling himself to his knees beside the prone form of the one person on earth he truly and deeply and paternally loved.

"Draco-" his voice was anguished as he pulled Draco over, onto his back, and then up into his lap. "Bugger. Oh no. Oh God-" his sharp eyes were quickly taking in the blood and signs of other, less obvious damage- "what have you done? Draco, what the hell have you _done_?"

Pale eyes blinked slowly open as Draco, a small, puzzled frown on his face, focused on Snape.

"Sev…(he paused and swallowed hard)…Sever…rus?"

Snape hid his amazement at being addressed thus; he had told Draco all the way back last summer, when the boy had stayed with him over the holidays, that he could feel free to call him by his first name, so long as there were no other students around- but this was the first time Draco had ever actually done so.

He felt a new and even stronger surge of protective love for the boy; he wanted to find whoever had done this and tear them limb from limb; rip their bloody heads off with his bare hands. He wanted to murmur soothing nonsense to Draco- something he had NEVER done before in his life to anyone- tell him he was safe now; that everything would be okay. Instead-

"Goddamn you for a fool, boy!" he exploded, his anger returning in a bright, crimson wave; as red as the blood that soaked Draco's clothes, and now his own. "What the bloody hell were you thinking, running off alone like that! I'd have come with you if you had just- DRACO!"

This frantic shout was the result of the exhausted boy's eyes beginning to roll back in his head- fortunately, it had the desired effect of bringing him back around- at least, for the moment.

"Huh?" he said, eyes flying wide, expression guileless; it was, Snape thought, nearly the same expression Draco was able to turn on at will whenever he got caught goofing around in Potions. This thought tore at his heart.

"Draco, what happened?" he asked, in a gentler voice.

"Had to…get…Potter's cloak back. And I ran…ran into…a few of my parents' friends." He coughed, then added, his inborn sarcasm shining through, "they really…rolled out the ol' red carpet for me…Severus."

"I can see that," Snape replied, shaking his head. Idiot boy! Running off alone when all he would have had to do was take one bloody minute to explain the situation and he, Snape, would have gone with him- fought with him- died, if need be, to protect him from just this sort of harm. And that was no small matter; there were only two people on earth Snape would willingly die for- Dumbledore and Draco.

But enough. There was no changing what had happened; what was called for now was not recriminations, but action- he had to get Draco to the hospital wing.

"I'm just going to get a stretcher under you," he said to Draco, whose eyes were drifting shut again, "and then I'll get you to Madam Pomfrey faster than you can say I'm-a-bloody-idiot-who-should-have-asked-for-help!"

_All right, so I'm still mad,_ he thought grimly, as he prepared to conjure a magical stretcher; _I have a right to be, damn it! Of all the stupid, reckless, arrogant-_

"No."

Snape looked down. The pale eyes were open and alert again, boring into his own.

"No stretcher," Draco whispered. "C'n bloody well walk…myself."

This was, of course, absurd.

Bloody well walk, indeed.

Snape's first impulse was to snort his disbelief, and then to ask why exactly, if Draco could walk so bloody well at present, had he been crawling a moment ago?

But he resisted this impulse, which would have been needlessly cruel. After all, the boy had his pride. It was one of Draco's most defining characteristics, Snape knew- that pride. So, after a moment's careful consideration, what he said was, "we'll walk, then, Draco, but at least let me help you. Lean on me. We'll get there faster that way."

After a moment's hesitation, Draco, whose thoughts were all bent on the hospital wing not because of the aid that awaited him there but rather because that was where Hermione was, nodded his reluctant acceptance of the offer of help, refusing to meet Snape's eyes as he did so.

To accept even this much assistance chafed him, despite the condition he was in.

"All right," Snape said. "On your feet, then." Getting to his own feet, he hauled Draco up with him and slung the boy's arm about his shoulder.

Draco was unable to suppress a low, agonized groan, as he pressed his free hand to the deep, ragged wound on his side.

"Draco! Are you-"

"I'm fine," Draco cut him off, biting out the words from between clenched teeth, his face a grim mask of pain.

"For God's sake, boy, there's no shame in-"

"I'm FINE!"

Snape shook his head, scowling; there was no point in arguing further, though secretly he hoped that Draco would fall unconscious before he could do himself any more damage through his damned, stubborn pride. For a moment he actually considered Stupefying the pigheaded boy, but decided against it. Draco's trust was not easily won, and once lost, it was lost forever. He was not willing to jeopardize the trust Draco had put in him.

So they began to walk.

00000

By the time they reached the infirmary, Draco was contributing very little to the joint walking effort. Snape was, in fact, half-carrying, half-dragging the now barely conscious boy along.

Nevertheless, when Snape attempted to ease Draco down on a bed near the door, removing the invisibility cloak as he did so, Draco resisted. Calling on his very last reserves of strength and determination, he pushed away from Snape, and the bed. As close as he now was to Hermione, he was not going to rest without first seeing her.

He stumbled down the long ward, leaning briefly, as he went, on the footboards of each empty bed he passed, then using them to push against, to propel himself on to the next one, and the next. He was almost to the end of the ward and starting to panic at not having found her, when his knees gave out and he slumped against the footboard he'd been holding onto, clasping it fiercely in a desperate attempt to prevent himself from sliding the rest of the way to the floor.

He would not go down! He would not!

When he felt Snape's strong arms grasp him and pull him upright again, the potions master shouting all the while for Madam Pomfrey, he snarled and tried to wrench himself out of his mentor's grasp- but to no avail. He no longer possessed the strength to throw Snape off- or to stand unaided, for that matter, even if he had been successful.

"Draco!" Snape, his patience at its very limit, gave him a quick, hard shake. "She's not here! She and Potter were moved to a private room. I will take you there if you will just- stop- fighting me!"

At this, Draco slumped defeatedly against him. "Private room," he muttered distractedly to himself, "why pri-private room? That's bad…always…very, very bad…."

"I think that at this point, you're worse off than either of them, and all your own doing!" Snape growled in frustration. "Come on, then, since you obviously won't listen to reason until you see Miss Granger."

Since Draco had already made it nearly to the end of the ward, they didn't have far to go. Snape led/dragged him through the first door off the small hallway at the back of the ward that held the school's four private hospital rooms. Draco could hear sounds of hysterical grief coming from further down the hall, and thought briefly that Ron's body must be in the room at the end, and that his family had arrived to claim him.

But all thoughts of Ron vanished from his mind when he saw her lying in the narrow hospital bed, so still, so pale, so deeply, deeply wounded, just as she had been over a year ago when he had first grudgingly come to realize and accept that what he felt for her was more than respect for her intellect, more even than the close friendship they had formed over their secret study sessions in the library; it was love. A bright, hot, sharp, almost painful kind of love that he had never before even dreamt existed.

There she lay, the very reason he was here, the reason- the ONLY reason- he had not simply lain on the grass in front of the manor, watching it burn and waiting for death- the reason he had walked, staggered, stumbled, _crawled_ his way back to Hogwarts. It had all been for her.

Hermione.

With a hoarse, inarticulate cry, he threw himself toward her; Snape let him go. He fell against the foot of the bed- then managed, somehow, to drag himself up the length of it- (registering, just barely, that Harry was in a bed opposite hers, looking like death)- until he was sitting beside her, leaning over to trace the outline of her face with a finger, to smooth back a stray curl of her unruly hair, which was fanned out over the pillow, dark and lustrous; clean, thanks to Madam Pomfrey, of the dried blood with which it had been matted the last time he had seen her.

So far gone was he in pain and fatigue that he didn't even notice the tears that leaked from his eyes the moment his hand made contact with her too-warm skin.

"Hermione-" he croaked; "bookworm?"

Her eyes flew open all at once, wide and startled, and the fear was there, of course, as he had known it would be; that wretched fear his bastard of a father had planted in her and that he wondered if he would ever, even over the course of a lifetime, be able to erase.

But it only lasted for a second. The flash of fear was gone as she raised a hand to brush the tears from his grimy, blood-smeared face.

"Draco," she breathed.

"I'm sorry I was gone for so long," he murmured, and paused for a moment to bury his face in her soft brown hair before continuing, "but it's over now; it's done. I'm not going to leave you again. Not ever."

"Draco," she whispered, her brow creased worriedly; even in her groggy, heavily sedated state she could tell, with intuitive certainty, that something was very wrong here. Draco's eyes had a faraway look she had seen only once before- as he'd lain sprawled on his back in the aftermath of the battle with Voldemort, bleeding his life away- and he was slurring his words. "Are you okay?"

The corners of his lips quirked upward in just the faintest hint of a smile. She couldn't resist the impulse to smile back, even as hurt, tired and suddenly anxious as she was. She loved it when he did that- of all the expressions to sometimes cross his usually guarded face, this one had to be her favorite.

"I am now," he said.

Then, abruptly, belying his words, his eyes rolled back and he slid from the bed, landing in a crumpled heap on the floor.

00000

(A/N: This chapter was somewhat shorter than my norm for this story, but was- or was meant to be, anyway- positively overflowing with lovely, lovely Draco-angstiliciousness… so hopefully that made up for what it lacks in length!

FYI, Draco's quote, "I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep," is from one of the most beautiful poems ever written in the English language, in my opinion; "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost. It's a short poem, so I've included it in its entirety here.)

Whose woods these are I think I know.  
His house is in the village though;  
He will not see me stopping here  
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer  
To stop without a farmhouse near  
Between the woods and frozen lake  
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake  
To ask if there is some mistake.  
The only other sound's the sweep  
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.  
But I have promises to keep,  
And miles to go before I sleep,  
And miles to go before I sleep


	21. Chapter 21: A Mother's Touch

"DRACO!"

Two voices shouted the name together; Hermione from her bed, and Snape from where he had remained by the door.

As Snape crossed to Draco's side in two quick strides, Hermione pushed herself into a sitting position, gritting her teeth against the pain and wooziness this caused.

"I KNEW something was wrong," she was babbling; "I knew it, I knew it, I- oh, my GOD!"

This last was uttered as, virtually throwing herself over the side of the bed, she saw clearly for the first time just how bad his condition actually was.

00000

Draco had only passed out for an instant, but it would have been kinder to him _not_ to have regained consciousness so quickly- for along with his return to awareness came a screaming, blinding new agony such as he had never experienced before in his life. It was a pain that put Cruciatus to shame- here, indeed, was an experience worse than being stabbed and Crucio'd at nearly the same time- and it was coming from the gash in his side.

He bit down hard on the cry that threatened to escape his lips and immediately twisted himself onto his uninjured side, folding himself into a tight fetal position, trying to concentrate on breathing through the pain while wishing desperately for blackness to claim him again- anything, anything but this torment he was in.

He was barely aware of Hermione sliding out of bed and landing on the floor beside him, or of Snape kneeling on his other side a fraction of a second later, shouting his name over and over again in a voice made gruff by fear.

He only truly became aware of Snape's presence when the older man gripped him firmly and turned him once more onto his back, forcing him to straighten out again, telling him he needed to see the wound. Draco heard these words, but was unable to really make sense of them, so great was his suffering. He fought against his mentor, knowing only that he wanted to be on his side, that he wanted to curl up tighter and tighter until he disappeared altogether, ending this torturous pain.

But Snape would not allow it; he held him firmly, pinned on his back. Draco lay with his eyes tight shut, jaw clenched and head turned to the side, in the direction that his body yearned to follow, both arms pressed over the vicious wound that was causing him such agony, booted feet kicking out, trying to find something solid against which to brace himself in his attempt to fight off the searing pain.

"No…unngh…Sev…Severus, don't," he panted, as Snape attempted to pry his arms away from his side. He was desperate to keep the wound covered; protected. He was beyond reason in his agony.

"I'm sorry, Draco," Snape said, and he truly sounded it; "but I have to see the wound. I can't help you unless I can see what's wrong."

Snape managed, at length, to wrench Draco's arms away from his side. He knelt on the arm nearest him to immobilize it, and enlisted Hermione's aid to hold down the other one. She twined her fingers through Draco's as she held on with both hands. This left the potions master free to peel the sticky, blood-soaked clothes away from the wound. When he did so, Draco's entire body stiffened and his head whipped sharply, just once, from side to side, as if in a desperate, futile negation of the pain he was in.

"I can't…take…this," he ground out hoarsely from between gritted teeth; "hurts…too…bloody much!"

Snape felt a fist of sick, icy cold fear clench his heart, more from Draco's words than even from the sight of the wound he had just uncovered. The amount of pain Draco had to be in, in order to make such an admission, was unthinkable.

"Where the hell is Pomfrey!" he shouted, panicked, to no one in particular. "Goddamn it, I'm not a healer! I need some help!"

Draco heard this as if from far away, the words coming to him between the great, crashing waves of agony that were now threatening to engulf him. He was marginally aware of Hermione's hand in his, their fingers twined together; he tried to concentrate on it, gripping it tightly, visualizing, through eyes that were clamped shut against the pain, that small, warm, often ink-stained hand; that hand that now wore the ring that symbolized their love. He tried to use this thought, this vision, as a mental means of bracing himself against the agony that coursed endlessly through him, just as his feet had tried to find a physical brace moments ago, but he was overwhelmed. It seemed too much to bear, and yet he remained agonizingly, unremittingly conscious. His awareness of his surroundings was fading, however, as the pain took up more and more of his attention.

His strong, ingrained discipline was slipping; he knew that he would soon do something he hadn't allowed himself to do in years- not since the Hippogriff incident of third year ; start screaming from pain.

A voice in the back of his mind; the voice of his dry, sarcastic wit, which apparently, even now, had not been entirely subdued, spoke up. _Well, why not?_ the voice said, and he found that even his thoughts had a far-off quality to them now- _I've already screamed my head off once today, albeit for a different reason; why not try out some good, wholesome pain screaming too? Who knows, it might be a real-_

"Uhhhnnnnnnngh!"

Despite his thoughts of a second ago, he managed to stifle the sound before it became a true scream, though only by an act of sheer, iron will.

"Pro-professor…Severus…I can't- you gotta- STOP!"

"Draco." The deep voice of his mentor sounded from just above his head. "Draco, look at me. Open your eyes. Please try."

Draco wrenched his eyes open. The pupils were dilated, as a result of his pain and shock; they were so wide and dark that his eyes appeared black, ringed by just the thinnest coronas of silver. Despite the agony he was in, those eyes widened in surprise when they focused on Snape's face- because tears were standing out in the hardened professor's eyes. It was a phenomenon no student of the potions master had ever witnessed before; indeed, Snape had not shed a tear in over twenty years. Nor was he shedding any now- but he looked as though he might, at any moment.

"Draco," he repeated, catching the blond boy's head between his strong hands, "listen to me. Madam Pomfrey is here now; she's examining the wound. You have to bear with us so we can discover what's wrong, what's happening to you. Do you understand?"

Draco could hear Madam Pomfrey's voice murmuring from somewhere beyond Snape, though he could neither see her- all his attention was focused on his mentor at the moment- nor make out her words. "Yeah," he gasped out, "I…Uuunnnngghhh!"

His entire body jerked momentarily right off the floor as the mediwitch probed cautiously at the wound (which had now begun, unbeknownst to Draco, to glow with an evil, pulsing green light). It was like nothing she had ever seen, and so her mind was racing back over years and years' worth of reading and research she had done on magical maladies, trying to connect what she was seeing with something- anything- she had encountered before, no matter how obscure the reference might be.

"Why am I…still awake?" Draco wondered aloud a moment later, wanting nothing more than for blackness to take him, in the wake of the new blaze of pain Madam Pomfrey had caused him- and then; "Severus…?"

"I'm right here."

"I think I…n-need something to bite on."

The resigned, matter-of-fact way in which this request was made cinched it; just as Snape turned to search for something that Draco could bite down on as he attempted to fight his way through the pain, a single tear escaped his eye and streaked down his face, which was haggard with worry; he was doing something he hadn't done since he'd been years younger than Draco himself was now; he was weeping. He ducked his head quickly and wiped savagely at the tear, and only Hermione saw; Madam Pomfrey was still engrossed in studying the wound, an expression of shocked, horrified recognition just beginning to dawn on her features as something finally started to click in her mind.

Regaining his composure, unaware that Hermione had witnessed his brief, unguarded moment, his gaze fell on the small, white pillow of her hospital bed. He strained toward it, just barely able to grab it without removing his weight from Draco's arm- Draco was still straining against him, still wanting nothing more in his pain beyond reason, beyond comprehension, than to cover the wound and roll himself into a tight, protected little ball, in an attempt to hide from his suffering.

The potions master yanked the pillow roughly out of its case and tossed it aside; the pillowcase he folded over and over again until it was a small, thick wad of material. He then leaned close over Draco, willing himself to keep control and not shed any more damnable, weak tears. "Draco," he said gently; "Draco? I've got something for you to bite down on. Draco- hey. You're going to have to open your mouth, if you want it."

Draco sucked in a deep breath through his clenched teeth, then obediently unlocked his jaw, for just the merest instant- enough time, just barely, for Snape to shove the pillowcase into his mouth. Draco clamped down hard on it, eyes squeezed tight shut again, fair hair now plastered to his forehead with perspiration, cords standing out on his neck as he strained against the waves of pain radiating endlessly out from his side.

Snape turned toward Madam Pomfrey, intending to tell her that if she couldn't figure out what was wrong then she should at least make herself useful by fetching Dumbledore, who probably could, and while she was at it, bring a cool, damp towel for Draco's forehead- and then stopped, arrested by the expression on her face. Judging from that appalled look, she had made some sort of connection- and it wasn't good.

Not that he had expected it to be.

"Poppy," he said tensely, "have you figured out what's going on?"

"Dear God," she breathed, an expression of utter, stricken horror on her face, "I can't believe what I'm seeing- oh dear, sweet God, who would do such a thing?"

"What is it?" Snape practically screamed. "Out with it, you bloody, useless fool of a woman!"

Madam Pomfrey was still staring at Draco, aghast. She was so deeply distraught that she seemed not to even register the insults Snape had hurled at her.

"I read about this once, years ago- but I've never seen it, nor ever dreamed I would," she said shakily. "Whoever did this was a powerful dark wizard, and unspeakably cruel. It's a time-released curse that was buried deep inside his body with the creation of this wound. It has the power of half a dozen Cruciatus curses; it is, quite literally, crucio-ing him from the inside out. There has also been a powerful wakefulness spell incorporated, to prevent him from escaping the pain by losing consciousness. If this curse is not lifted, it will kill him, but slowly- it will probably take a day or more- and causing him pain almost beyond human endurance all the while."

She paused, trying to collect herself; she looked as though she were on the verge of breaking down- then continued; "it's monstrous. Just- unthinkable. But the most puzzling thing is not the curse itself, but Draco's reaction to it. A wizard's natural magical ability, his- his magic reserves, so to speak, should afford him some degree of- not immunity, exactly, but ability to fight this thing. Because magic fights magic, as you know. And we all know that Draco has very powerful magic- so the curse should not be ravaging him as it is; he ought to be offering some degree of resistance to it- but he's not. He's reacting as though he _had_ no magic; as though he were a muggle or- or a squib. I don't understand it at all."

But Snape had barely registered what she was saying about Draco's inborn magic, or sudden lack thereof; he was still trying to get his mind to grasp exactly what the mediwitch had said was happening to Draco as a result of the curse; the brutal and _deliberate_ torture that was being inflicted on this boy he loved beyond all other human beings. This strong, proud, fiercely independent man-child who was now laid low on the floor; still struggling, still stubbornly fighting not to cry out in his anguish, holding tight to the hand of the girl he loved (a girl who had, at Madam Pomfrey's words, dropped her forehead down to rest on their joined hands and was now sobbing great, convulsive, body-wracking sobs). A wave of white hot rage such as he had never known- and this was a man well-acquainted with anger- engulfed the potions master.

'Draco!" He gripped the boy's shoulders hard. "DRACO!" He shook him, then yanked the wadded-up pillowcase out of his mouth. Draco's teeth came together with an audible click. Finally, the ice-blue eyes cracked open again, though they were now dull with pain- that ceaseless pain- and failed to focus on him. It was probably just as well; Snape looked alarming. He looked, in point of fact, like a raving lunatic.

"Huh?" Draco whispered again, just as he had outside on the path.

"I need to know who did this to you. Draco? Draco! The wound on your side- who gave it to you? Draco, TELL ME NOW!" Snape intended to find the person responsible and use whatever means necessary to see that they suffered every bit as much as Draco was now; more, if possible.

Draco's eyes fell shut again. "I don't know…professor," he whispered hoarsely; "there…were…so many of them. On all sides…hit-hit me…all at once."

Actually, this was not true at all. Draco knew exactly who had given him this particular wound. But even as far gone as he was, he was not about to reveal- he would NEVER reveal- that it had been his own mother who had done this to him. He did, after all, as Snape had noted earlier, still have his pride.

"GODDAMN IT!" Snape swore in his helpless rage, pounding a fist into the floor just inches from Draco's head; Draco, at this point, seemed beyond noticing. Then he rounded on Madam Pomfrey again. "Do you know how to treat it?"

Silently, not taking her wide eyes off the evilly glowing wound, she shook her head no.

Abruptly, Snape leapt to his feet, releasing Draco's arm as he did so. If Madam Pomfrey could provide no help, then he didn't see any harm in allowing the boy to cover the wound, if that gave him some small comfort. "I'm going to get Dumbledore," he said tersely, and started for the door.

"Wait!" the mediwitch called from the floor beside Draco. He whirled about, thinking that she had remembered some means of fighting the curse, but all she said was, "he's in with the Weasleys. They are all beside themselves. Molly is- I've never seen her so- I believe she may actually do herself harm. And in any case- I fear there is nothing to be done here. He's needed there."

It took every ounce of restraint Snape possessed to keep from crossing back over to where she knelt and kicking her in the face.

Fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, he spat out, "just because YOU don't know how to help Draco, doesn't mean that Dumbledore won't. Ron Weasley is beyond all help, but hope may still exist here. As for Molly, she has a husband and six other children in that room with her to prevent her from doing anything rash. Therefore, you pathetic excuse for a healer, I submit that Dumbledore is needed HERE MORE!"

"I couldn't agree more," came a quiet yet authoritative voice from the doorway, "though there is no call for such harsh words, Severus, no matter how deep your concern for young Draco here. You are not the only one who is overwrought just now; it is a trying time for all of us." It was, of course, the headmaster. Stepping into the room, he continued, "Please move aside, Severus- and you too, Poppy; let me see if there is anything I can do."

Within moments, he had rendered Draco deeply and mercifully unconscious.

"Oh, God," Snape groaned, from where he had seated himself on the edge of Hermione's bed. He let his head fall forward into his hands as Draco's tortured body finally relaxed. "Thank God. Is he…is the curse lifted, Albus?"

"No," the headmaster said gravely, straightening up from where he had been kneeling beside the silver haired boy. "I was able to overcome the wakefulness spell, but that had simply been added into the curse, almost as an afterthought. The main part of the curse- the part that is hurting him- killing him- is far stronger and more complex. It will require time and effort to undo. Time that I'm not sure we have. So enough talk. Let's get him into the room next door. I need more space to work. And Severus- he will require an immediate magic transfusion, in order to give him the means of resisting the curse just a little while longer, and thereby buying us more time. His own supply has been completely exhausted somehow. Am I right in assuming that you'd be willing to be his donor?"

"Anything," Snape said hoarsely, not raising his head from his hands. "I'll lay down my life if I have to. Only Albus…please don't let him die. He's…he's all I have."

"I give you my word, Severus, that I will do everything in my power to keep this child alive. Now if you would bring him, please…?" And the headmaster swept out the door, to prepare the room next door.

Hermione, still sobbing brokenheartedly, reluctantly let go the hand which had gone limp in her grasp as Snape went down on one knee and, with infinite tenderness, gathered Draco into his arms. Standing, he shifted the unconscious boy so that the hot, sweat dampened silver head lay against his shoulder. "I should have been faster," he whispered, in a voice ravaged by guilt. "I should have caught you- gone with you. I should have protected you. God, this is all my fault." He moved toward the door, then, murmuring as he went, "stay strong, Draco. Fight this thing. If you die because of my failure- I'll go mad."

And then he was through the door and gone, Madam Pomfrey, after ordering Hermione sternly to get back in bed and rest, following him out and shutting the door.

00000

Hermione did not get back in bed.

She remained sitting on the floor, drew her knees up to her chest, and continued to sob, arms wrapped tightly around herself, rocking slightly back and forth, alone and comfortless, until she reached the point of hyperventilation, when she literally could sob no more because just breathing had become difficult enough.

She finally raised her head, eyes still streaming, breath coming in tiny, shallow gasps all one on top of another, and pushed her hair back out of her flushed face. She turned her head toward her bed, intending to crawl over to it and climb back in- then froze. Something had caught her eye; something lying halfway under her bed.

"_Accio_," she said, in a shaking voice, and it came obediently to her hand.

"Draco," she whispered brokenly as she held the object, tenderly, cradled in her lap. It was his wand, which had fallen out of his waistband as he'd been thrashing in agony on the floor. Bowing her head over it, she kissed it, then pressed its smooth, cool length against her overheated cheek. When she raised her head again, the wand glistened wetly with her tears.

"_L-lumos_," she said in a choked little voice, and at first thought that nothing had happened; that the wand, which was inextricably linked to Draco's life force, had failed produce any light at all, which could mean only one thing…"no," she whispered, and bent close over it, searching, searching for any light radiating from it at all. "Come on, Draco- oh God, please…."

Her long, thick hair fell forward in a rumpled curtain, creating a dark, protected little space in which she held the wand, watching it intently. And it was only in this darkness that she found she was able to make out just the faintest hint of a glow coming from the wand tip. It was barely there, and flickering like a candle flame in a strong wind.

Seeing that fitful glow caused her to break down and sob again, both in relief and renewed fear. Really, as hard as she was crying, it was a small miracle that she heard the quiet voice at all.

"Mione…hey."

She raised her head, startled, at the sound of the familiar, beloved voice. "Huh-Harry?"

"Mm-hm. Where are you?"

"On…on the floor."

She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees and crawled over to the side of Harry's bed. He didn't look as though he'd moved so much as an inch, but his brilliant green eyes were now open and gazing at her, albeit somewhat unfocused without his glasses on.

"Oh my God, Harry…" she reached out and clasped his hand; "I was so sure you…you were…and Draco…God, I thought I'd lost you both and- AND Ron- and- and what would I DO all on my own and- oh Harry, I was so scared!"

"Hey," he said softly, "don't do that to yourself. Hermione- don't. I'm okay. I am. And you think YOU know scared- bloody hell, do you realize that you actually went and DIED on me?" His face contorted with the pain of the memory. "Thinking I'd lost first Ron, then you- I wanted nothing more than to die as well. Christ, Hermione, I love you so much."

"I…I love you too. Are you really going to be okay?"

"Yeah," he murmured sleepily, eyes heavy-lidded, words beginning to slur; "I'll make myself, if I have to. I'm not gonna leave you, Mynee."

These words were, of course, intended to comfort her- but they had the opposite effect; fresh tears sprang to her eyes. "Draco said that too," she choked out, dropping her face into the crook of her arm where it lay on the edge of the bed, "but Harry- I really think…he's dying!"

"Wait, wha…dying- _WHAT?_" All sleepiness had fled Harry's voice; he now sounded well and truly alarmed. "Hermione, what's happened to Malfoy?"

"He left me," she whispered between rapid, hitching breaths; "When everyone thought you were- that you would- when they were all working on you. He snuck out; told me he just needed to go back for Ron, that he'd come back to me as soon as he could…but he didn't. He sent Ron back with a portkey, but he didn't come back for hours- and when he did he was half dead, under a curse. I don't know what happened to him, but I- God, Harry, I've never seen him in such pain, not even after Voldemort. And they took him into a different room and told me just to go back to bed, as if I- as if…and I found his wand on the floor and I tried Lumos with it and it won't stop _flickering_ and oh…God…Harry…I can't lose him, I just can't, what did I live for, if Draco's going to die?"

And she lapsed back into broken sobs.

"Hey," Harry said gently, "what am I, chopped liver?"

"I…no…oh Harry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I just…."

"Shhh…I know. I know. S'okay. C'mere." He patted the bed beside him, brow furrowing as he did so, as if even this simple gesture required all his concentration and effort.

"Malfoy's not gonna die," he said, as she pulled herself off the floor and up onto the bed, stretching out beside him, laying her head exhaustedly down beside his on the pillow, allowing her eyes to fall closed, overcome with weariness. "He already proved himself a fighter once- remember? He beat the odds that time; he will again."

"I…you really think so?"

"The only way Malfoy'd die is if he gave up, pure and simple. And he's not gonna give up on life. He's got you to live for, hasn't he?"

"You didn't see him," she whispered miserably, unconvinced.

"But I know him." And then, a moment later, "you're shaking. Come under."

As she crawled under the blankets, Harry reached for his wand, which lay beside his glasses on the nightstand, and murmured a quick spell to widen the narrow hospital bed- then, as an afterthought, summoned all the blankets from Hermione's bed for additional warmth.

Now snug under a double weight of blankets, Hermione curled up against Harry, their heads so close together on the pillow that their hair and breath both intermingled. She closed her eyes, though silent tears continued to leak from them, trickling slowly now down her face. Gradually her trembling subsided, but her breathing was still hitching and uneven. Her thoughts drifted from Draco, who was fighting for his life, to Ron, who had already lost his. She felt herself being pressed down under a weight of grief so enormous she felt it must surely crush her.

"It was never meant to be this way," she whispered, a long moment later.

"What way?" Harry's voice sounded drugged with exhaustion and the remnants of an immense pain.

"Just the two of us. Friends. It was never meant to be just the two of us. Without Ron. Never. How will we live without him, Harry? I can't- I can't even begin to imagine a life without him in it. I look ahead and I see years, decades…a lifetime that was supposed to include him. We were all supposed to buy houses in the same town- on the same street- raise our children together…my kids would have…have called him Uncle Ron. It's not fair! It's so unfair that my kids will never have an Uncle Ron. And how can it be that I might live to be sixty- seventy- eighty years old without ever hearing his voice again! I can't- I can't- fathom that, Harry. I can't make my mind accept it. It hurts…so bad…oh God, Harry, the pain is killing me and it won't ever get better, it won't ever go away, even if Draco's okay I don't- I just don't…know how I can live like this, when it was never meant to be! Why? God, why Ron? I can't…Harry, it's too heavy…I can't breathe!"

This was true; she was hyperventilating again.

"Hermione!"

Gritting his teeth hard against the pain it caused his still not-entirely-healed ribs, Harry rolled from his back onto his side, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her into a crushing embrace. Without knowing when he had started, he became aware that he was sobbing too; great, shuddery, wracking sobs that sent white hot pain lancing through his ribcage again and again and again. He was having no easy time breathing himself. Didn't matter. The grief he felt couldn't be contained; and despite the physical pain, it felt right, on a very basic level, to share this grief with Hermione. He pressed his cheek against her hot, damp forehead and they sobbed together; their tears intermingling now, too.

Clinging to each other like lost children, or like the only two survivors of some horrific wreck, afloat on a single piece of debris in the midst of a vast, dark sea, they sobbed themselves to sleep.


	22. Chapter 22: Man of His Word

Hours had passed.  
  
00000  
  
"I was never...good enough...for you. Fuck you! I hate you- I HATE you! I renounce you!"  
  
Tears were streaming down Draco's face; in the throes of delirium, he lacked the self-control that would normally have kept them tightly in check.  
  
"I hate you, I hate you...get off me, let me go...Hermione!"  
  
It had gone on like this for a good part of the night, ever since Dumbledore had managed to lift the curse Draco had been suffering under; he had triumphed over the malign magic just when all hope had appeared to be lost, but Draco had been left weak, virtually without magic of his own (still, no one could understand how he had exhausted his own supply)- a magic transfusion from Snape had been required to give him the means to successfully fight the curse- and very, very sick. Since Dumbledore had left the room, nearly stumbling with fatigue and looking every one of his many, many years of age, Snape had been restraining the delirious Draco and forcing water into him at hourly intervals, until they were both exhausted and the fight finally went out of the former Slytherin.  
  
Though his body ached from the constant struggle, Snape was anything but relieved by the state Draco fell into then; he looked more than half-dead, all further attempts to revive him failed, and the potions master was certain, with a feeling of cold dread deep in his heart, that the silver haired boy was slipping away.  
  
00000  
  
In another private room off the main hospital ward, Harry and Hermione had been sleeping curled together, deriving what comfort they could from one another's presence in the wake of their best friend's death, which had shattered their world.  
  
00000  
  
Hermione, of course, woke up screaming.  
  
And, considering the nature of her nightmare, it did not help matters at all that a disoriented, half-asleep Harry had rolled on top of her and was pinning her down in a severely misguided effort to curtail her frantic flailing. He was also shouting her name, but as deeply distraught as she was, her eyes screwed shut and her mind still halfway caught in her dream, his voice, his words, failed to register. Only his presence- his strong, male presence on top of her, pushing her down into the bed, immobilizing her, filled her awareness and drove her into absolute hysterics.  
  
"No! No! NOOO!" she was screaming, to Harry's horror; "Not again, PLEASE not again, I can't take any more, I want to die! God, let me DIE! Get- get OFF of me, get AWAY, you're not Draco, you're not, you're NOT-"  
  
"HERMIONE!!" Harry gave her a single rough shake. Even this probably would not have been enough to snap her out of it, except that her head hit the headboard, hard, causing her eyes to fly open at last as she gasped in surprise and pain. They locked onto his and he watched the recognition flood into them, even as her mouth kept forming the words, "not Draco...not...Draco!"  
  
"Hermione," he said, more quietly this time, shifting his weight off her, "it was a nightmare. Just a nightmare. We're in the infirmary, remember? You're safe."  
  
"Huh- Harry...?"  
  
"Yes. Yes, love. It's me."  
  
"Oh God. Harry. Oh, my God. I can't take this. I can't sleep. I can't close my eyes...without seeing..."  
  
"What?" he whispered, smoothing her sleep rumpled hair back from her face; "what do you see?"  
  
"Draco...Lucius...Draco...oh, God! It's gonna drive me mad! He...he knew it would, and it will- Harry, it will!"  
  
She was nearly incoherent in her distress; Harry found himself utterly unable to follow her fractured train of thought. But her eyes; her eyes were scaring the hell out of him. They were dry- she had cried so long and hard before falling asleep that it seemed as if, for the time being anyway, she had no tears left- but in them he saw a hurt so deep, a fear so profound, that it did almost appear, as she had said, to border on madness.  
  
"He knew it," she repeated; "he knew, he knew what it would do to me! God, Harry, what if I can never get past this, even...even if Draco lives, every time I look at him I'll see... oh, it's going to tear us APART!"  
  
"Hermione." Harry caught her face gently between his hands. "I'm not following you. Surely you're not saying that Draco hurt you?"  
  
"No! Not Draco- never Draco. I kept telling myself and...and telling myself... that Draco would never- would n-... it was Lucius, it was always Lucius, but God, Harry, the way he looked- and sounded- it was like he was raping my MIND!"  
  
Harry just stared at her, aghast, trying to process what she was saying. Although he had not the slightest idea of exactly what had happened to Hermione during her captivity- Lucius' actions toward her had been far too depraved for Harry to even begin to imagine them- he was starting to get an understanding that whatever she had endured had been bad. Very, VERY bad.  
  
"God, Hermione," he murmured, more, it seemed, to himself than to her, "what did that incredible bastard do to you?"  
  
She didn't reply.  
  
She just stared up at him with those haunted, panicked eyes for a long moment, then blurted, "I don't- I- can't... I...need to... um, check on Draco."  
  
And bolted from the bed, and the room.  
  
00000  
  
Hermione approached Draco's room- at least, she was reasonably sure that it was Draco's room due to the sign posted on the door: "Room Occupied, Quiet Please"- on bare, silent feet. She paused in front of it, her heart racing in her chest with fear- the residual panicky fear from her dream combined with a more rational fear stemming from just how badly off Draco had been the last time she'd seen him, being carried out of her own room by Snape.  
  
She took a deep breath and slowly, terrified of what she would see, pushed open the door and stepped inside. It was a small, sparse, white room, exactly like the one she had just left, except that this room contained only one bed, on which lay-  
  
Draco. Oh, Draco.  
  
She wouldn't have believed that it was possible for him to look worse than he had after the confrontation with Voldemort the previous year- but he did. The sheets and blankets were tangled as though he had recently been thrashing about- but he wasn't moving now. He barely seemed to be breathing. His skin was ashen, his closed eyes set into bluish hollows, his silver hair lack-luster. His face, even in sleep, or unconsciousness, or whatever state he was in, was taut with pain.  
  
In a chair beside the bed sat Snape, arms crossed tightly over his chest, appearing almost to be hugging himself, perhaps in a futile effort at self- comfort. His head was turned to the side, and Hermione saw that he was asleep with his chin on his shoulder. Even as he slept, his face was haggard with worry and guilt.  
  
She took Snape's appearance in quickly, then her attention returned fully to Draco. Her love. Her fiancé. Still fighting for his life; that much was patently obvious. Still at death's door.  
  
"Draco." Her voice came out in a choked whisper as she crossed the room and sank down on the edge of his bed. "Oh, no."  
  
Conscious thought flew out the window and instinct took command as she leaned close over him, until their foreheads were nearly touching. Her masses of thick, dark hair fell down around them, creating a small, secret space, just as it had when she had bent over his dangerously flickering wand. Only now it was his face itself that she was desperately searching for signs of life.  
  
"Dracodraco," she whispered, her breath bursting warm upon his still face, "come back. I love you and you're safe now and you promised...you wouldn't leave me...you PROMISED and so it's time to come back. Can you hear me? I need you and I'm calling you back. Draco?"  
  
His brow furrowed at her words, as though he heard her, and he swallowed and parted his dry lips. She ran her thumb gently over them. "I love you," she breathed. Then, scooting down a little on the bed, she laid her head down on his chest, feeling it rise and fall beneath her- barely, just barely- and allowed silent tears to leak from her eyes and soak the soft white shirt he was now wearing, unaware that Snape had awoken, discovered her presence, thought of sending her back to her room, and then reconsidered, deciding that if anything could bring Draco back now, it was only her love.  
  
"You once said," she whispered brokenly, "that you were a man of your word. Well, you promised me it was over and that you'd never leave me again, and I intend to hold you to that promise, Draco Malfoy! Don't you dare go where I can't follow you!"  
  
Her hands balled into fists there on his chest, clutching the material of his shirt, as she fought down a sudden, irrational impulse to pummel him, shake him, scream at him, slap him; anything to cause those gray-blue eyes to open.  
  
And then she felt it; the tiniest ghost of a touch on her back.  
  
She raised her head and immediately the pressure on her back increased. Turning slightly, she saw that what she had barely dared to hope was true; Draco had indeed curled an arm protectively about her.  
  
"Draco!" she cried. Pulling herself up along the length of his body until her face once again hovered over his, she bent and planted a soft kiss on his forehead. His eyes remained closed, but one corner of his lip twitched upward, into a tiny, lopsided smile.  
  
"Hey," he whispered in a raw, cracked voice.  
  
A single traitorous sob escaped her before she could prevent it. Draco's half-smile vanished and now his eyes did crack open; a pain-dulled slate gray.  
  
"My-nee," he croaked, sliding his hand up her back until it was buried in her hair, "m'sry." His brow furrowed and he shook his head then, frustrated by his apparent inability to form simple, familiar words. (Well- familiar in theory, anyway, if not in practice- he had very rarely ever said 'I'm sorry' before to anyone... but it still should have come out easier than this.) "Suh...s'rry," he tried again. "I'm sorry."  
  
"Don't waste your strength being sorry!" she cried. "Just get better, Malfoy, that's all I care about now."  
  
"Won't leave you," he whispered. "Keep my promises." Then- "water?"  
  
"Water," she echoed distractedly, "yes. Yes, of course. Hold on, love. I'll get you some water."  
  
She started to straighten up, but found herself held firm by Draco's hand, which had fetched up at the base of her neck.  
  
"No," he rasped, "don't go."  
  
"But," she said, puzzled, "you said you wanted water-"  
  
"Want you more. Don't go."  
  
"Draco, stop being-"  
  
"Miss Granger," said a low voice beside her, causing her to start. She had forgotten all about Snape's presence in the room. She looked over and saw the potions master holding a glass of water out toward her. He gave her a small, weary smile and indicated, with a tilt of his head, a pitcher standing on the nightstand.  
  
"Professor," she murmured. "Thank you."  
  
She took the glass, then returned her attention to her fiancé. "I've got your water, love," she said. "Can you raise you head?"  
  
His eyes fell shut once more and a look of concentration came over his face for a moment. Then, "no," he whispered in a small, lost voice.  
  
"It's okay," she half-sobbed. "That's just fine, don't worry about it." She slipped a hand gently beneath his head, feeling his hair slide through her fingers like damp silk, and raised it a couple of inches off the pillow. Holding the glass to his lips, she whispered, "drink."  
  
He tried to obey, but as weak and uncoordinated as he was, more water ended up out then in, mingling with her tears to further soak his shirt. Hermione felt her heart twist within her. Seeing the man she loved in a state of such profound helplessness that he couldn't even raise his head or drink a glass of water held against his lips was...it was more than painful. It was killing her. She honestly didn't know how she could survive Ron's death, the horrors she had endured, and now this- being forced to watch Draco suffer so.  
  
She eased his head back onto the pillow; his eyes did not open again. Laying her own head beside his, she stayed with him until his breathing evened out and the hand at the base of her neck first relaxed its hold, then fell away, to trail over the edge of the bed. She took it in her own, planted a kiss on it, then folded it over his chest and straightened up, intending to ask Snape about the dangerously flickering wand. She had to know what to expect; no matter how bad the answer was, it was preferable to the agony of not knowing.  
  
But she sat up too fast, and, still being far from entirely well herself, swayed dangerously, nearly slipping of the edge of the bed. Snape was at her elbow immediately.  
  
"Miss Granger, I must insist you return to your own bed at once. You are not well."  
  
"But Draco-"  
  
"No buts, Hermione. I insist. Bed. Now."  
  
"But I HAVE to know-"  
  
Snape sighed. "Until you came in, I wasn't sure if he'd make it. Now I believe that he will live. But I refuse to go into any more detail with you at the moment; not when it is obvious that you are in dire need of rest and recuperation yourself. I'm not going to say this again, Miss Granger- Go. To. Bed."  
  
Hermione took one last, lingering look at Draco, swallowed hard, and nodded. She was too exhausted and numbed by grief and suffering- her own and that of the people she loved most; Draco- Harry- to argue further. Standing slowly, carefully, she shrugged off Snape's offer of assistance and made her way back to her own room and bed.  
  
Harry was asleep again. And how he needed it. She knew he was still hurting too. That was to say, physically hurting- not just the constant, empty ache that would be a permanent part of his soul- and her own- now Ron was dead. After all, when she had seen Harry on that floating stretcher earlier, he had been just as close to death as Draco was now. The thought of how close she had come to losing all three of the men she cared most about- and entirely because of her own stupidity in letting herself get caught- caused a wave of nausea to roll over her. Fighting it back with some difficulty, more because she didn't want any resultant retching to wake Harry than for any other reason, she collapsed into her own bed without a sound and immediately fell into a doze- but not a true sleep, because something was nagging at the very edge of her mind.  
  
She came back to full awareness with a jolt a mere ten minutes later as she realized what it was; Draco's wand. She wanted- NEEDED- to keep it with her, to hold it, at all times, even when sleeping, to watch over it until Draco was well enough to take it back, to safeguard its dim, flickering light. Rationally, she knew this was silly; like a child with a favorite stuffed animal, but she also knew, deep down and beyond the shadow of a doubt, that she would not sleep peacefully without her love's wand in her hand. Sleepily, she reached behind herself and groped for it on the nightstand, a tiny sigh escaping her lips as her fingers closed around its smooth, somehow comforting length.  
  
She was already drifting off again, the wand held tightly in her hand and snuggled under her pillow, when it occurred to her that she hadn't bothered to check its light. After all, Snape had said that he hadn't been sure before, but now felt that Draco would most likely live. Perhaps the wand would be shining steadily now, confirming Snape's prognosis. Pulling it out, she held it before her eyes and looked at it closely-  
  
And sat up, her heart suddenly slamming painfully against her ribcage, feeling as though a bucket of ice water had just been poured over her.  
  
The wand had gone out.  
  
She made a small, strangled sound without being aware of doing so, bringing the wand closer still to her eyes- there was no light to be seen, flickering or otherwise. The room was dark, the only illumination coming from Harry's wand which still lay on the nightstand- her own was lost, taken by Lucius- she never expected to see it again. If Draco's wand had offered up even the faintest shimmer, it should have been visible to her. There was nothing.  
  
The tiny "no!" that escaped her then was more a forcible expulsion of air from her lungs than an actual word. Getting a grip- barely- on her rising panic, which was threatening to spin entirely out of control, she swallowed past the sudden enormous lump in her throat and whispered "Lumos."  
  
Still nothing.  
  
"No. LumosLumosLUMOS!"  
  
Nothing.  
  
Her shriek of pure, soul-deep agony ripped through the hospital wing. 


	23. Chapter 23: To Wake The Dead

Almost before she had stopped screaming, she was out of bed, through the door and tearing down the short hallway to Draco's room. At Draco's doorway she collided with Snape, who had been roused from his own dozing state by her bloodcurdling cry and, fearing some sort of attack, was on his way, wand out, to see what was the matter. He tried to grab her, but she shoved him aside with such unexpected strength that he stumbled back and fetched up against the wall; if the wall had not been there, he probably would have gone sprawling.  
  
Never slowing, Hermione flung herself onto Draco's bed, literally screaming his name. Kneeling over him, again with an adrenaline-born strength not her own, she pulled him fiercely, almost violently, up into a sitting position. Clasping him against her, one arm wrapped around the small of his back, the other hand pressing his face to her shoulder, she continued to keen out her anguish; a pain that was beyond words.  
  
She took no notice of Snape in the doorway, staring at her aghast, or of the pounding footsteps that heralded the arrival of other adults at a run- she was too deeply immersed in her grief for that.  
  
But what she did notice, what she couldn't help but notice, was this; Draco, with a monumental effort, raising his arms to clasp them about her waist, returning her embrace.  
  
He didn't hold her tightly; he hadn't the strength to. But he WAS holding her- a fact which meant that he was, of course, irrefutably alive.  
  
"Draco!" she sobbed into his silver hair, hardly daring to believe, and felt him turn his head slightly to the side, his cheek resting against the place where her neck met her shoulder. His cheek was hot and damp and sticky against her skin. And then-  
  
"Bookworm," he mumbled dazedly, "w'sa matter?"  
  
"Oh my god," she cried, "Draco! Oh my God, I thought I lost you. I don't understand, I don't- your wand, I thought- I was- but you're awake! Oh Draco, you're awake!"  
  
"Course I am," he mumbled. "You were screaming...t'wake the dead."  
  
This was more than she could take.  
  
Intense anger welled up in her, an extension of her fear and grief a moment before, and it didn't matter that it was irrational; it was there, and so needed to be acted upon. Dropping him back against the pillows, she hauled off and slapped him across the face with all her strength. How dare he frighten her so!  
  
Then she collapsed on top of him, sobbing hysterically into his chest.  
  
She felt one of his hands come up and tangle itself gently in her thick hair; it stayed there until she managed to gather herself together enough to raise up and lean over him. He was looking up at her in sheer bewilderment, a vibrant red handprint glowing on his left cheek.  
  
"I said I was sorry," he whispered, sounding for all the world like an injured child, "you didn't have to slap."  
  
And then, before she could reply, he was gone again, sunk back into unconsciousness.  
  
00000  
  
Feeling a hand clamp her shoulder firmly from behind- this was definitely not Draco- Hermione, still on her knees on his bed, yanked herself away and whirled about, snarling.  
  
Snape was standing over her, his dark eyes unreadable.  
  
"Miss Granger," he said in an uncharacteristically gentle tone, "what on earth-"  
  
"I'm not leaving again!" she shouted, cutting him off. "I'm not leaving him, do you hear me, I won't go and you can't make me! When his wand went out I thought- I thought he- I have to be here, right here, where I can SEE him! I don't care what you say, you'll have to Stupefy me and carry me out of this room because I'm not going! I can't TAKE another scare like that! It'll kill me, d'you hear? It'll KILL ME!" Having said all this in one breath, she drew in a long, shuddery gasp of air and dropped her face into her hands, crying weakly.  
  
When Snape's voice next came, it was from right on her level.  
  
"Miss Granger- Hermione- I am so, so sorry that you had such a fright."  
  
Raising her head in surprise, she saw that he had hunkered down so that they were eye-to-eye. Before she could formulate a reply, he further astonished her by reaching out and pulling her into a fierce embrace. She stiffened for a moment, then melted into him, burying her face in his dark robes, which bore the fragrance of a hundred potions ingredients, immeasurably comforted merely by the feel of strong arms wrapped tightly about her.  
  
He held her thus in silence for a long time, then at last said quietly, "of course you may stay here. I would not have you any more distraught than you already are. Let me modify the bed for you."  
  
Hermione heard a disapproving little "hmmph" sound and, glancing over Snape's shoulder, saw Madam Pomfrey hovering by the door, summoned, no doubt, by her screams and looking decidedly less than thrilled with the newly proposed sleeping arrangements. The mediwitch, however, said nothing, perhaps remembering Snape's earlier fury and not wishing to see it unleashed again.  
  
With a flick of his wand, the potions master widened Draco's bed just as Harry had done to his own bed earlier and held the covers back while Hermione crawled under them. He then settled himself back into his chair as Madam Pomfrey huffed out of the room, still without having spoken a word.  
  
"Hermione," he said softly, just as her eyes began to drift shut.  
  
"Huh?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper, as she snuggled into Draco's warmth.  
  
"Tell me again, now that you are calmer, just what made you believe that Draco had died."  
  
She winced at the word, then her eyes opened, a look of consternation on her face. "I don't understand," she said. "I was watching his wand. I had put a Lumos charm on it so that it would shine continually-"  
  
"You were using the wand to monitor Draco's condition?"  
  
"-because I know that though a wand will respond, to some degree, to any witch or wizard who is holding it, it is bound, from the moment it's purchased, to the magic and the life-force of its owner. It would obey me and stay lit, but only as long as Draco was alive. If he died, the wand would no longer respond to me, or anyone else. It would go out, and I wouldn't be able to relight it. And it did- professor, it did go out! So I don't- I don't understand."  
  
Studying his face, she caught the pained expression that flitted briefly over it- it was there one second and gone the next but, as she had spent over a year in love with a man who was equally adept at hiding his emotions, Hermione was not fooled for a minute. The pain had been there; it had been real.  
  
"What's going on?" she asked, pushing herself into a sitting position. "There's something you're not telling me. Something bad. Draco's alive, but something's still wrong, and I have a right to know, I love him!"  
  
Snape sighed. Under his breath, barely audible, she thought she heard him murmur "damn you, Lucius, damn you to hell. Your own son. To think I ever counted you a friend." Then, turning his full attention back to Hermione, he said, "there are two events, Miss Granger, that can cause a wand to permanently cease functioning. One is, as you have said, the death of its owner. Do you know what the other one is?"  
  
"Yes," she said, clearly not understanding, even now, "I've read about it, but it's really rare, it hardly ever happens, it-" she broke off and swallowed hard, her face a mask of horror as comprehension dawned. "It can't be. No, professor. No."  
  
Snape's face was suddenly tight, as though he were struggling to maintain control of his emotions. When he spoke, his voice was constricted. "When Draco was hanging by a thread, all I asked was that he live. As long as he pulls through and lives... I am content. But this- this is going to be a heavy blow for him to bear. I can't even begin to imagine how he will react."  
  
He saw in Hermione's eyes the silent pleading for him to tell her that this was some misunderstanding, some mistake- and what wouldn't he give to make that be the case. But he would not lie to her; she had been through enough without being lied to and she did have a right to know, as she said; she did love him.  
  
"Draco has lost all of his magic, Hermione. I don't know how, but it's gone. I lent him enough of mine to survive on, but though it kept him alive through the most trying time, it will not respond to him as his own inborn magic would have. Whether his magical ability will ever return, I can't say, but as of right now, for all intents and purposes... he's a Squib."  
  
00000  
  
Harry lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, which looked very far away. Which WAS very far away, considering that he was sprawled flat out on the floor between his own bed and Hermione's.  
  
It had happened when she had pelted from the room screaming, of course. Harry, awakened suddenly from a sound sleep, without time to remember where he was or why he was there, had reacted without thinking, throwing himself out of bed in a panicked attempt to go after her. Unfortunately, the moment his feet had hit the floor he had collapsed, his legs unwilling to support him, his body still weak and in pain.  
  
Repeated attempts to pull himself up and back into bed had failed.  
  
He absolutely refused to yell for help. He couldn't stand the thought of being found here, lying on the floor in a state of complete helplessness. No, he would keep trying until he got himself up, damnit. Right. So. Again.  
  
Mustering all his strength and determination, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. His entire ribcage screamed in agonized protest, but this was the most progress he'd managed since landing himself in this predicament, so he was pleased. Only for a second, though; then, before he could grasp the side of the bed in order to haul himself up, he collapsed backward, into a half-sitting, half-lying position against the nightstand, hitting his head hard on its edge in the process.  
  
Raising one hand weakly to his head, he groaned- just as the door flew open.  
  
"Harry!" cried Sirius.  
  
00000  
  
He was at Harry's side like lightning, kneeling over his grimacing godson, his hands on Harry's shoulders.  
  
"Harry, what in the HELL-?"  
  
Harry looked up at his godfather, trying to focus on his face without the aid of his glasses, hatinghatinghating being found like this.  
  
"Sirius," he said hoarsely.  
  
"Christ, Harry, why are you on the floor? Are you all right?" Sirius paused and shook his head. "Stupid question. Let me help you up."  
  
With Sirius's aid, Harry was soon sitting on the edge of his bed, arms pressed tightly over his aching ribs, breath coming in short little pants; it still hurt to breathe deeply. Miserably, he turned his face away from Sirius. It wasn't that he was not happy to see his godfather- he was. It was just that he hated being caught by anyone, especially someone he looked up to this much, in a moment of weakness, and he was afraid that his face betrayed the pain he was in.  
  
Sirius sank down on the edge of the bed, facing away from Harry, as though sensing his discomfort. With his elbows on his knees, he dropped his face forward into his hands, sucking in a deep, shaky breath. At this, Harry finally turned his head towards him, taking in the older man's stooped posture, his obvious worry.  
  
"Sirius?" he asked tentatively.  
  
Sirius looked up at him then, and smiled- but his smile was as shaky as his breath had been. "Harry," he said. "You really delight in these sadistic strains on my blood pressure, don't you?"000  
  
"Sorry," Harry whispered.  
  
"No. Don't be. You did what you had to for your friend. I understand that- I do. When I was your age- hell, now too- if this had happened to one of my friends, I'd've done the same. It's just that- the message I got...Christ, it almost scared me to death."  
  
Harry shook his head. "Don't worry about me. Hermione and Malfoy are both hurt a lot worse than I am."  
  
"Bollocks," Sirius said succinctly. "I spoke to Madam Pomfrey. She said you almost died."  
  
Harry's jaw went tight, his eyes filling with a pain far deeper than the physical ache in his ribs. "I should have died," he said, looking away again. "Ron took that curse for me. It should have been me. He should be the one here right now."  
  
"Supposing he had been," Sirius said quietly. "Would you have wanted him to destroy himself over that fact?"  
  
"No," Harry said, then, "I don't know... bloody hell... I'd've wanted him to feel something though!" Abruptly, he lashed out, the immense amount of grief that lay just below the surface morphing quickly and easily into anger- anger directed at Sirius simply because he was there; a handy target.  
  
"What the fuck are you trying to say anyway-" his voice was rising with every word- "that I should just forget about it and move on? Don't waste another thought on Ron, he's yesterday's news- is that what you're telling me? Fuck you, Sirius, you have no fucking idea- you can't even begin to imagine- I feel like- like-"  
  
"Like you'll never be whole again," Sirius supplied gently. "You want to remember who you're talking to, Harry. I know the pain of losing my best friend. And the pain of feeling that it was all because of me."  
  
"Oh God," Harry whispered, stricken. "God, you're right." He raised his eyes to Sirius; they were all the more brilliantly green because of the tears that were leaking slowly, steadily from them. "Help me, Sirius. Please help me. I don't think I can bear this."  
  
He dropped his face forward into his hands, shoulders hunching, a shudder ripping through his body from head to foot, totally stripped, now, of the fierce, defiant pride that had caused him to resent Sirius finding him on the floor a moment ago- all that was left at this point was an orphan child in a staggering amount of pain, in desperate need of comfort.  
  
Without a word, Sirius gathered him into his arms, pulling him tight against his chest, rocking him slightly. He held him thus for a long time, as Harry continued to shake; not saying a word, just offering the simple, yet powerful physical comfort that Harry had had so little of in his life.  
  
Harry, for his part, sobbed silent, wracking sobs into his godfather's chest, his hands fisted in the material of Sirius' robes, letting his pain and grief and guilt and horror wash over him in waves like sickness until that was what it all became- and suddenly he was wrenching himself away from Sirius, leaning far over the edge of the bed, his head down between his knees, retching violently, and still Sirius was supporting him, one arm wrapped firmly around him to prevent him from collapsing entirely onto the floor, the other hand rubbing soothing circles on his back.  
  
Only now did Sirius speak again, murmuring, "that's all right, Harry, that's just fine, you're doing fine... the grief you'll have to live with, but the guilt is like a disease, it'll poison you if you let it, so just go on and get it out... get it all out."  
  
When Harry had retched himself dry, Sirius helped him settle back into the bed again, and vanished the mess with a flick of his wand before turning to hand Harry- who was propped up on his elbows , looking like hell warmed over, yet refusing to lie back all the way- a glass of water to rinse the foul taste from his mouth.  
  
Once he had drunk it all down, Sirius took the glass from him and, putting one hand flat on each of Harry's shoulders, pushed him firmly down amongst his pillows.  
  
"Rest," Sirius said, in a tone that brooked no argument. "You need to rest. I'll stay right here."  
  
"Sirius," Harry half-whispered, half-croaked, looking up at his godfather, his eyes vivid green windows into a soul that was drowning in sorrow, "I feel like I'm dying every minute. Am I gonna feel this way forever?"  
  
Sirius bent over him, running a hand with astounding gentleness through that characteristically messy black hair. "I'm not going to lie to you, Harry," he said softly. "The pain is always going to be there. For a while it will be right on the surface, every minute of every day. Then it'll sink to just below the surface... in a few years, who knows, you might get through a whole day or more without so much as a whisper of it... but it will still surprise you, at the oddest moments, and with enough force to knock you flat. It's never going to go away, it will merely become... endurable. But you will have something to help you, something that I never had."  
  
"W'sat?" Harry asked, his voice sleep-slurred, his eyelids beginning to drift shut despite his best efforts.  
  
"Someone who's been where you are," Sirius replied, "who knows exactly what you're going through, and who will help you every step of the way. Me, Harry, you've got me, and you always will. Always."  
  
"Th'nksS'rus," Harry mumbled, his eyes now completely shut. And with a sigh, he was lost to sleep.  
  
Sirius sat for a while in silent thought, then flicked his wand over Harry, whispering the words of a spell that would have much the same effect as a good-sized draught of Dreamless Sleep potion. He then stood, pulled Harry's covers up to his chin, placed a quick kiss on his godson's forehead, and, as there were no chairs in this room, retired to Hermione's bed, where he propped himself against the headboard, stretched out his long legs, pulled the latest edition of the Daily Prophet, which he had nicked from Madam Pomfrey's office, out of a fold in his robes, and began to read.  
  
MAYHEM AT MALFOY MANOR, proclaimed the headline; MANY CONFIRMED DEAD.  
  
00000  
  
Draco was dreaming.  
  
It was a strange sensation, because he knew he was dreaming- yet, at the same time, it felt far more real to him than any other dream he'd ever had- or remembered having, at any rate. Certainly there was a different feel to this dream than there had been to all of the pain and fever induced dreams he had been experiencing since having dragged himself back to Hogwarts.  
  
In the dream, he was standing at the top of Hogwarts' great staircase; the sweeping marble stairs that led down into the school's entrance hall.  
  
With Ron.  
  
Both of them were wearing the standard-issue white pajamas of the hospital wing, just as they had been when they really had stood here all those many months ago, on the night of Draco's resorting. He didn't get the feeling that he was reliving that memory in this dream, though. He felt as though he were planted firmly in the present. Ron, for one, looked the way he had looked just hours ago, the last time Draco had seen him before they had parted ways in the manor- and not the way he had looked that night so long ago. He had grown taller since that night, his hair a little longer, grazing his white pajama collar.  
  
This was definitely present-day Ron, not a-year-and-more-ago Ron.  
  
Ron had been flicking casually at some nearly invisible dust particle on his white sleeve, but now he looked up, his cobalt eyes meeting Draco's without the faintest hint of surprise, just as though he were keeping a long anticipated appointment. When he spoke, it was with calm assurance, his voice quiet, yet clear.  
  
"She didn't give it to you," he said.  
  
"Give what to me?" Draco asked. He didn't need to ask who 'she' was.  
  
"The message I gave her for you," Ron said, "when I met her between. I can understand it slipping her mind; she hasn't been well, and neither have you; the two of you haven't had much time to talk. But it's an important message, and since she didn't give it to you, I have to tell you myself."  
  
"So, what is it then?" Draco asked a bit snappishly; he was feeling somewhat thrown off by Ron's unruffled demeanor, as though the redhead had been standing around and waiting all day for him to show up, as though he had single-handedly engineered this little rendezvous- everything from the setting to the attire.  
  
Had he?  
  
"Do you remember what I told you the last time we stood here?" Ron asked mildly, "as Harry and Hermione went down the steps ahead of us, arm in arm? Do you recall what I said?"  
  
Draco, still a bit put out, wasn't in the mood to play games, so he did not beat around the bush. "You said if I ever hurt her, you'd rip off my balls and feed them to me," he answered curtly, his eyes locked on Ron's somewhat defiantly. "It that what this is, then, Weasley? I don't deny that she's in a world of hurt, and all because of me. Did you summon me here to make good? Go on, then-" and he spread his arms wide; an invitation- "do what you need to. Nothing you can do to me could hurt as much as the knowledge of what she's been through, simply because she's unfortunate enough to be loved by me."  
  
Ron took a step forward, closing the distance between them, reached out, and grabbed a fistful of Draco's pajama top, right in the middle of his chest. He yanked him forward until they were nose to nose, doing battle with their eyes, both boys suddenly breathing hard through clenched teeth.  
  
"I'm not going to do anything to you Malfoy, because that would only hurt Hermione more," Ron ground out, "and she is very- fragile- right- now. All I'm going to do is warn you to stop being such a goddamn selfish bastard before YOU hurt her beyond repair- I don't think you understand how close she is to losing it altogether... and here you are seriously considering leaving her once and for all. Do you have any idea how completely and utterly that would destroy her? Would rip apart not only her body, not only her mind, but her very soul?"  
  
"What in the bloody hell are you talking about?" Draco spat out.  
  
"You're thinking of GIVING UP!" Ron hissed with savage anger. "You think I can't tell that, Malfoy?! You're thinking about how nice it would be to slip into the darkness, to let it close over you like cool water... to just rest for a while- like how about a fucking eternity! You're slipping away from her, and you justify it by telling yourself that you're the cause of all her pain and that she's better off without you... so I'm here to pop your delusional little bubble, Malfoy, and tell you that you had better not dare leave her, because she isn't better off without you... without you, she's WORSE THAN DEAD! Do you fucking hear me?! And if you show up at MY doorstep, I will not hesitate to kick your ass all the way back to her, where you belong. She needs you, and I'm going to see that she has what she needs. I still love her, Malfoy, and I'm still looking out for her, and I always will be, and don't you ever fucking forget it. Now... Are. We. Abso- fucking-lutely. Clear?"  
  
For a long, spiraling moment, they just stood there, Ron's hand still clenched in the fabric of Draco's shirt, both Draco's hands clenched into fists at his side, glaring at each other, gray eyes warring with blue, Draco sheet-white except for two bright fever-spots of rage burning high on his cheeks, Ron flushed with anger, his freckles standing out in bright, startling relief against his livid face.  
  
Finally, Draco took a decisive step backward, yanking himself out of Ron's grasp, disengaging from the battle of wills.  
  
He drew in a long, shuddering breath, and abruptly the fight seemed to go out of him. "Relax, Weasley," he said quietly; dully. "We're clear. Crystal."  
  
He raised a hand and ran it through his silver-white hair, a simple gesture that spoke volumes of weariness and defeat, and took another step back, increasing the distance between himself and Ron, who still looked mad enough to spit nails- and found suddenly that there was nothing solid beneath his foot- he had backed off the edge of the steps- and he teetered for a moment, trying desperately to regain his balance, but in vain; he fell backward and down, thinking in that instant, here we go again, when will it ever be enough?  
  
He saw Ron's eyes widen and the red haired boy lunged for him, but it was too late; he hit the steps with a lightning flash of pain and tumbled all the way down them, thinking, I really ought to wake up right about now- when you fall in dreams, don't you usually wake up before you hit bottom?  
  
No such luck this time. He slammed down on the marble floor of the school's entrance hall and lay there, sprawled on his back, his feet resting on the bottom step, dazed and gasping shallowly for breath, bringing one arm up from where it was flung out beside him- a Herculean effort- to hold it protectively against his side, which was screaming with pain. Funny, he thought, the fall should have caused all sorts of new pain for him, but it hadn't... all it had done was bring into sharp focus the agony in his side, which had previously faded almost entirely from his consciousness.  
  
Then Ron was there, on his knees bending over him, no longer looking angry at all; just pale and anxious. "Malfoy," he said, gripping Draco hard by the shoulders, "Malfoy... Malfoy?"  
  
"S'okay, Weasley," Draco slurred, "s'just... my fucking side...ow. I thought it was... going away. But it's back now. And do you know... that's the third bloody staircase I've fallen down today?" His forehead creased, then, in thought, and he added, "or has it been more than a day? How long's it been anyway, Weasley?"  
  
Ron shook his head. "That doesn't matter. Time has little meaning here. But Christ, Malfoy, I'm sorry. That wasn't supposed to happen."  
  
Draco, still flat on his back, gave a one-shouldered shrug, and winced. "I never liked stairs much. When Hermione and I get a house, it's going to be one... bloody... storey."  
  
Ron smiled at that. "Just make sure there's room for a library, Malfoy."  
  
Draco grinned back weakly, then attempted to lever himself into a sitting position, hissing through his teeth as he did so. Ron helped him, pulling him up with an easy strength that Draco couldn't remember whether he had possessed in life. Not that it really mattered now.  
  
A moment later they were sitting side by side, both leaning back against the large, ornate marble pillar that served as the bottom of the stairs' banister, their shoulders touching. This was, Draco reflected, the most companionable they had been in a long, long while- perhaps ever.  
  
After several moments of such companionable silence, Draco asked abruptly, "this isn't a dream, is it? I mean, not in the traditional sense. You're not just a figment of my imagination, are you? You're... really you."  
  
"Yes," Ron said simply, "I'm really me, Malfoy."  
  
Draco mulled this over for a moment, then said quietly, "in that case, Weasley, you really ought to think about paying Potter a visit like this. He's hurting bad, mate. He's hurting really bad."  
  
Ron didn't answer this directly. Instead he sighed, ran a hand through his coppery hair, and said, "you ought to be getting back, Malfoy. Hermione really does need you, more than you can possibly know."  
  
Draco turned his head toward him. "You know what happened to her." It wasn't a question.  
  
"Yeah," Ron answered quietly. "I almost wish I didn't; it hurts to know. But yeah."  
  
"How?"  
  
"I'm dead," Ron said flatly, as if this explained everything. "I know what I need to know."  
  
"What about my father?" Draco asked. "Do you know about him?"  
  
"He's... not where I am, Malfoy. I'm sorry. I know that must be hard for anyone to hear about a parent... no matter that he brought it on himself."  
  
"Not as hard as you may think," Draco said grimly. Then- "and my mother?"  
  
"She's not where I am either," Ron said simply.  
  
"But is she-"  
  
"Look, Malfoy, you've gotta get back. She'll be waking up in a minute." Ron stood and extended a hand to pull Draco up as well. When their eyes met again once they were both on their feet, Draco saw in Ron's an incredible depth of sadness.  
  
"I truly am sorry, Malfoy," Ron said. "You don't deserve what's happened to you. It's shit, pure and simple. But you have to remember Hermione- no matter how bad things look to you, think of her, and how much she's going to be depending on you to help her heal. You can't take the easy way out, Malfoy, no matter how appealing it looks. You can't leave her. Swear to me."  
  
"Wait," Draco said then. "Wait just a damn minute here. What the hell are you on about, Weasley? What's wrong with me?"  
  
But the dream was already spinning away, the school's marble entrance hall and great staircase spiraling lazily and fading into blackness, and all he could see any longer were Ron's eyes, his sad blue eyes, and all he could hear in his mind were Ron's words; "don't you leave her, Malfoy. Don't you dare leave her, no matter what; don't you dare...."  
  
"Weasley!" he shouted, "Weasley, wait! Wait! What's happened to me? Goddamn it all, what's WRONG with me?! WEASLEY!"  
  
00000  
  
"What's wrong with me?" He whispered the words aloud as his pale eyes opened with a snap.  
  
He was breathing hard, his sugar-white hair pasted to his head with sweat, and he would have shot up into a sitting position, had it not been for a warm, sleep-heavy weight lying across his left side.  
  
Hermione, he realized. She was in his hospital bed with him, fast asleep, her head resting on his left shoulder, one arm and one leg flung possessively over his body beneath the blankets they shared. He might have smiled at finding her there, except that now the words  
  
what's wrong with me what's wrong with me what's wrong with me  
  
were running ceaselessly through his head, a terrible, foreboding mantra. Even wide awake now, he never questioned that his session with Ron had been real, and  
  
what's wrong with me?  
  
this fact meant that he had to uncover the meaning of Ron's parting words. Ron had seemed to think that  
  
what's wrong with me?  
  
there was something so terrible amiss that Draco might actually lose his will to live when  
  
what in the bloody hell is WRONG WITH ME?  
  
he realized what that something was. He didn't understand, though; he felt all right, all things considered; he had regained some of his strength and the pain in his side had subsided to a dull, albeit persistent, ache. The only real discomfort he was in at the moment was due to thirst. His mouth was miserably dry- felt as if it had been coated in sandpaper.  
  
Carefully, so as not to wake her, he shifted Hermione off himself and, with a monumental effort, sat up, stifling a groan as he did so and leaning back heavily against the pillows, his head suddenly swimming.  
  
Once his vision cleared, he scanned the room and saw that Snape was asleep in a chair in the far corner; the darkest corner- looking absolutely haggard. He saw also that the water- both pitcher and glass- was on the bedside table beyond Hermione. He was unwilling to call out to Snape, and unwilling to lean over Hermione- he didn't want to wake either one of them.  
  
No matter, though; this was a problem easily solved.  
  
"Accio," he murmured, extending his left hand toward the half-full water glass.  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
His forehead creased into a frown.  
  
No. No no.  
  
"Accio," he said again, his voice stronger, more commanding.  
  
Still nothing.  
  
He found that his breath was coming faster all of a sudden, his heart beating harder, panic mounting in the corners of his mind. He looked to the nightstand on his own side of the bed and saw his wand lying there; picked it up and pointed it at the water glass, realizing as he did so that his hand was shaking.  
  
what's wrong with me?  
  
"Accio glass," he said, his voice cracking, his heart in his throat.  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
The wand fell from his fingers.  
  
No. No no. No no no no no no no nonononononoNONONONONO NO NO NO NO  
  
And he didn't have to ask what was wrong with him any longer.  
  
He knew.  
  
00000  
  
(A/N: 400 reviews- WOOHOO! Thank you guys so much!!! Well, long enough chapter for you? Twice the length of the last one... but it will have to do for three weeks, because two weeks from today I will be in NY for the first of my three summer trips there (and I live in CA, so it's not exactly around the corner).  
  
Hey... what do British people call lawyers? Maybe I'm just being stupid and they call them lawyers or attorneys just like us Yanks, but I had a hunch there was another word... and I need to know for next chap... or possibly the one after, but... soon anyway.  
  
The 000 denotes a movie quote- did anyone notice it? And... can anyone identify the movie and scene I took it from? Just a fun tidbit, I thought.  
  
A quick note about Sirius- I started writing "You Gotta Breathe" long before OotP came out, and so, of course, Sirius featured in YGB- and once book 5 came out I wasn't about to go back and change my story, especially since I happen to like Sirius and think that it's absolute SHIT SHIT SHIT that he died that way- if there's anything worse than seeing a character I like die, it's seeing a character I like die a completely pointless, stupid, shitty death like that! But anyway... so I figured that since YGB takes place in 6th year, and Sirius is alive and well in it, that pretty much made my whole storyline AU, so why not bring Sirius back in this one? Harry's going through enough pain what with losing Ron.  
  
He needs his godfather.  
  
Oh, Sirius.  
  
wanders off, weeping softly.) 


	24. Chapter 24: Gryffindor Four No More

MAYHEM AT MALFOY MANOR; MANY CONFIRMED DEAD  
  
The Ministry of Magic has confirmed early this morning the rumors that Malfoy Manor, one of the most ancient residences in Britain, has burned to the ground, and that fourteen people, including, our sources tell us, the patriarchs of several well-known pureblooded wizarding families, were found dead at the scene.  
  
Lucius Malfoy, the owner of the manor, whose remains were the only ones to be recovered from within the smoldering building itself, has been conformed dead. The identities of the other persons, who perished in an apparent bloody confrontation outside the manor as it burned, are being withheld from the press pending the notifications of next-of-kin.  
  
The Malfoys owned ten house elves, all of which are also presumed dead in the blaze.  
  
According to our sources, virtually all of the deceased had been rumored to be one-time supporters of the Dark Lord Voldemort, and current speculation has it that Lucius Malfoy had stepped forth among them to take the place of their fallen master. Arriving at the manor for a ceremony in which, it is presumed, Lucius Malfoy was to become their new Lord, they found the building in flames and Malfoy deceased, and a deadly conflict then erupted amongst them as to who should be chosen as their next leader.  
  
There is no evidence, at this time, however, of the cause of the fire. One theory is house elf arson, as the Malfoys, claims one neighbor who wishes to remain anonymous, treated their servants with notorious cruelty.  
  
Though no body has been recovered at this time, it is presumed that Narcissa Malfoy, wife of Lucius and lady of the manor, is also dead, perished in the flames. Missing from the scene was Draco Malfoy, Lucius and Narcissa's only child. It has lately been confirmed that Draco is safe at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he is a seventh- year student and the school's Head Boy. He is not thought to have had any part in the conflict that has destroyed his ancestral home and rendered him an orphan.  
  
Draco Malfoy was one of the four heroes who defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort over a year ago. Rumors abound that his parents, who were reputed to be staunch allies of Voldemort, were in the process of disowning Draco for his part in bringing about the Dark Lord's fall, and for his subsequent Resorting from Slytherin House, which had previously seen twelve generations of Malfoys sorted into it while at Hogwarts, to Gryffindor House, which had already boasted the affiliation of the other three youths responsible for Voldemort's demise; Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger.  
  
The Malfoy family solicitors, when contacted for comment, refused to confirm or deny such rumors that Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy had expressed an interest in, or even begun the process of, disowning their son, but they did state firmly that as of yesterday, when the tragedy occurred, Draco had not been officially disowned, and so he stands to inherit whatever Malfoy wealth was not destroyed by the fire.  
  
00000  
  
Sirius sighed and closed the paper. No mention of Ron's death could be found anywhere in its pages. It would have to be made public knowledge soon, though. He wondered what cover story Dumbledore would come up with, to offer the wizarding world as an explanation for the loss of Arthur and Molly Weasley's youngest son... but of one thing he was sure; Ron's name would not be besmirched by any association with the goings on at Malfoy Manor. It was likely to be reported as a freak accident in the Forbidden Forest, or some sort of Quidditch tragedy; something of that nature. This would serve to protect his memory, and also his surviving relatives and friends, from any untoward attention.  
  
On the other hand, it would also prevent the world at large from ever knowing what a hero Ron had been. His death would be seen as stupid, senseless, without meaning. Ron, who had been one of a family of seven children, who had gone on to become the faithful best friend of the most famous young wizard of the age, and who had craved recognition of his own all his life, would be denied it, one final time, in death.  
  
It was almost too cruel to contemplate.  
  
Standing, Sirius walked restlessly over to the room's one small window, careful not to disturb Harry, who was slumbering peacefully, still under the effects of the spell.  
  
"Ron," he murmured aloud, addressing the red haired boy as though he were standing in front of him. He saw in his mind's eye a picture of Ron the way he had been that night in the Shrieking Shack; over four years ago it had been. Harry had been only thirteen years old. Ron had had a broken leg, yet despite the agony he'd been in, he had still attempted to shield Harry from Sirius, whom he had though a murderer out to harm his best friend.  
  
"You were, and are, to Harry as James was, and is to me. And know this, Ron Weasley; your heroic act will never be forgotten. Not by Harry, nor by me. You saved the only precious thing in my life, at the cost of your own. I will be grateful unto my grave."  
  
00000  
  
Snape, who had been sleeping the dead, black sleep of the truly exhausted, and thus had failed to hear Draco's increasingly agitated attempts to Accio himself a glass of water, nevertheless came fully awake an instant later, with a powerful sense that something was wrong- and that intuition was confirmed as he met Draco's eyes across the room.  
  
The first thing Snape registered that the blond boy was sitting up- which should have been a good thing, but the expression on Draco's face- hurt and confusion and shock and panic all rolled into one- quickly told him otherwise. Then Snape saw Draco's wand where it lay atop the covers- his sharp eyes darting down to it and then back up to Draco in a fraction of a second- and he understood.  
  
Draco was, he saw now, breathing very quickly- too quickly- his chest rising and falling with hitching rapidness beneath the soft white fabric of his shirt.  
  
"Draco," Snape said, getting to his feet-  
  
"No," Draco rasped, in a dry, gravelly voice, and pressed himself back, as far into the pillows as he could, as if actually trying to escape from his mentor- or, more likely, from what he could tell his mentor was about to say to him.  
  
Snape moved towards him. "Draco, it's-"  
  
"Don't!" Draco yelled, his voice cracking, "don't say it!" Hermione was stirring now, beginning to wake up as well. Draco edged away from her; in fact, he edged right off the bed, and proceeded to press himself against the wall, looking completely panicked now; a trapped, desperate animal.  
  
This was worse than Snape had even feared it would be- and Snape was a pessimist by nature.  
  
He stopped moving then, and ran a hand distractedly through his jet black hair. "Draco," he said, slowly, carefully, "you have to calm-"  
  
"FUCK THAT!" Draco shouted, and now Hermione sat straight up, pushing back the masses of dark hair that fell across her face, her expression groggy for only a second- then she too caught on to what was happening.  
  
And what was happening was that Draco knew. And he was not taking it well.  
  
He continued backing away from Snape, keeping his back against the wall, until he found himself wedged in a corner, at which point his legs finally gave way, spilling him to his knees (Snape was amazed that he had lasted even as long as he had on his feet, as hurt and weak as he was), one arm bracing himself against the floor, the other held pressed to his side, his head bowed, silver-white hair spilling down over his eyes, obscuring them from view.  
  
Snape was at his side in an instant, but when he reached for him, Draco wrenched himself away. "Don't... touch... me," he gasped, his breath still coming far too shallow and rapid for Snape's comfort- "don't touch me, don't... say it... don't... just don't... I can't... handle this, I can't... I can't take this...." He broke off, suddenly seized by a wrenching, hacking cough; his dry throat and labored, hitching breath becoming too much for him to handle any longer. He wrapped both arms around his midsection and doubled over, his fair hair now brushing the floor, making strangled, choking sounds that seemed to be half cough, half sob.  
  
"Bloody hell," Snape muttered, and then, "to hell with THIS," and, disregarding Draco's near-frantic request not to be touched, reached out both-handed and virtually yanked the boy forward into his arms, crushing him against his chest, holding him tight.  
  
Draco stiffened and attempted to wrench his arms free, but Snape just held him all the tighter. The traumatized boy responded, after a moment, by unleashing a veritable howl of rage and grief into his mentor's chest, then sagging forward into him, only briefly, before tensing up again as he began to do battle with the sobs that wanted to come.  
  
His breathing became ever more erratic as he tried desperately to hold the tears at bay, and he just kept repeating the same two words, his voice muffled by the fabric of Snape's robes, into which his face was pressed; "I can't... I... can't..."  
  
Snape said nothing, just held on; he didn't know what to say. Words of comfort had never been his strong suit.  
  
And then Hermione was there, beside them on the floor on her knees, reaching out to grip Draco firmly by the shoulders and pull him around in Snape's arms so that he faced her instead. She straddled his legs, kneeling in his lap, getting herself as close to him as she could, then took his face in both her hands and lowered hers to it, resting her forehead against his. He was still whispering over and over again, "I can't..."  
  
"Draco!" She was nearly shouting in an effort to get through to him. "Draco... Draco... listen to me... LISTEN!" When this failed to elicit any response, she pressed two fingers to his lips, finally shushing him.  
  
"Draco," she said again when he had fallen silent, except for his hitching, painful-sounding breathing and swallowed sobs, "please hear me." She removed her fingers from his lips, cupping his cheek instead. Her other hand was tangled in his hair, her forehead still pressed to his.  
  
"I love you," she said urgently, "do you understand that? Draco? I love you- YOU- and this changes nothing, all right? Nothing. I love the person you are and your magic is one part of that, and maybe it will come back and... and maybe... maybe it won't. But it doesn't change who you are and it doesn't change how I feel about you, God, Draco, please believe that, please." She dropped her hands to his shoulders and gave him a small shake, frustrated that his eyes still had the glazed, shocked look they'd held since he'd realized just what had happened to him.  
  
"Draco," she whispered then, "I need you. Oh God, I need you so much. Please... Draco... don't let this destroy who you are. Please... stay with me. Stay with me. Draco, I'm begging you... if you love me at all... please..."  
  
At that, his eyes finally seemed to clear a bit. She pulled her head back a few inches and they stared at one another for a silent moment, both breathing as if they'd just run a marathon, then Hermione dropped her head to his shoulder, burying her face in his neck. Draco brought his arms up then- Snape finally released them, judging, correctly, that the fight had gone out of him- and wrapped them about her, pulling her into a tight embrace, holding her against him almost frantically.  
  
He let his head fall back onto Snape's shoulder and stared up at the ceiling with lost, despairing eyes. Then, sandwiched in a secure embrace between the two people who loved him most in all the world- magic or no magic- he gave a deep, shuddery sigh and let his pale eyes fall shut, his exhausted body drifting easily into sleep, granting him reprieve from the waves of hopeless misery that had been crashing over him since he had tried to accomplish something so simple as summoning himself some water.  
  
00000  
  
A long moment later, Hermione rocked back onto her heels, and wiped her forearm wearily across her eyes, which were steadily leaking silent tears. She met Snape's eyes then, and saw in them the same question that was foremost in her own mind at the moment-  
  
How in the hell were they going to get Draco through this?  
  
Hermione couldn't imagine the devastation she would feel if she were faced with the loss of her powers, and she hadn't even known magic existed until she'd been eleven years old. To someone like Draco, who'd been born and bred in the wizarding world, who had been raised on the belief that witches and wizards were as far superior to non-magic people as those non-magic people were to, say, chimpanzees, and that it was magic that accounted for this superiority, a loss of magical power had to be just about the worst blow he could suffer.  
  
Dear God, what would it do to his pride?  
  
On top of everything she had been through and was still going through, a new and cold and gnawing fear was born deep within her; that under the circumstances, death might be more appealing to Draco than life at this point.  
  
He wouldn't... ever... consider....  
  
Would he?  
  
As Snape returned Draco, now mercifully unconscious once more, to the bed, murmuring over him the very same spell that Sirius had recently used on Harry, she reflected, in a state of mounting panic, that yes- he might. He might very well consider it, because to Draco, the state he found himself in now would be worse than castration. He had lost a fundamental part of what, in his mind, made him....  
  
Well, human.  
  
00000  
  
And indeed, Draco's suffering was something terrible to behold.  
  
But then, they were all suffering; on the day of Ron's funeral, which dawned clear and cool, what Ron would have referred to as perfect flying weather, Harry ended up having to be supported between Hermione and Sirius in much the same manner as Molly Weasley, standing on the other side of the open grave, was being supported between her husband and eldest son. Had such bodily support been withdrawn from either one of them, they would have collapsed to the grass of the tiny Ottery St. Catchpole churchyard in which Ron was being laid to rest.  
  
Harry's grief had a wretched, hopeless quality to it that suggested that Ron had not, as yet, "visited" him. Draco and Hermione, by contrast, though still beside themselves with sorrow, were able to bear their grief a little better; thanks to their respective sessions with Ron, they possessed a serenity which Harry did not.  
  
In keeping with wizarding funeral tradition, each person at the graveside had brought with him or herself an item of personal significance to place atop the casket before the grave was filled. When Draco's turn came to present his "gift", he placed on the coffin, with infinite care, a small square of parchment; it was a single sheet which had been folded over several times and sealed with wax. If the seal were to be broken and the parchment unfolded, only nine words would be found, written in Draco's elegant script;  
  
Rest easy, mate. I will not leave her. Ever.  
  
00000  
  
As the group of mourners trod slowly back toward the Burrow for the post- funeral meal- the preparations for which had been overseen largely by Ginny, with the help of numerous family friends; Molly was so overwrought by grief as to be incapable- Harry was accosted by a witch wearing violently purple robes, and glittering spectacles to match; one Rita Skeeter, who had reclaimed her post as wizarding Britain's queen of gossip, lightly disguised as news.  
  
She just started firing questions at Harry- who merely stood where he was and stared at her with dull, miserable eyes- declaring that the wizarding world wanted to know how he felt about seeing his best friend buried today, and didn't he think that Ron's death could have easily been prevented?- the press, true to Sirius' prediction, had been fed a story about how he had perished in a flying-related accident; only his family, the Hogwarts staff, and a select few others knew the true heroic nature of his death.  
  
Before Harry- or Sirius, who was beside him and appeared to be in the process of rapidly forgetting the "boys don't hit girls" rule- could respond, Draco stepped up, placing himself between the obnoxious reporter and his friend as solidly and protectively as Harry had once placed himself between Draco and his murderously angry father.  
  
Without a word, Draco reached out, plucked the parchment from her fingers- it was still blank except for the headline; that was already in place at the top- GRYFFINDOR FOUR NO MORE, it read- and tore it, very slowly and deliberately, into several pieces, which he threw in her face. Then, as Rita's mouth opened and closed, fish-like, in silent indignation, he took the quill from her other hand, snapped it in half, dropped the pieces at his feet, ground them into the dirt with the heel of one dragonhide boot, spat on them for good measure, turned, and walked away- all without having said a single word.  
  
Rita Skeeter was left staring after him in astonishment; no one had ever treated her that way. A thousand things to say or do in the face of such an attack sprang to her mind, yet she acted on none of them. The reason was his eyes.  
  
They had been the cold, dispassionate eyes of a man who has lost so much that he cares very little anymore for the consequences of his actions...  
  
And is, therefore, a very dangerous man indeed.  
  
00000  
  
They had only a week after the funeral, and then N.E.W.T.s were upon them.  
  
Harry, Hermione and Draco were all offered the opportunity, circumstances being what they were, to forego them and still progress with the rest of their class, yet all three declined the offer. Harry and Draco were both too proud to accept, Hermione was horrified at the thought, and when it came right down to it, they all needed something to occupy their time and attention; something into which they could throw themselves wholeheartedly, and the last-minute cramming the N.E.W.T.s required was just the ticket.  
  
Draco was by necessity adjusting to his new condition, though no one but Hermione and Snape dared to discuss it with him. In fact, only Hermione, Harry, and, by necessity, the faculty knew about it. The faculty had to know because, obviously, Draco was going to be prevented from taking several of his N.E.W.T.s. Those which would require hands-on magic were now closed to him. Ordinarily, a Squib would not have been allowed to take any wizarding exams, much less graduate from Hogwarts, but it was generally agreed upon that an exception could be made in Draco's case, seeing as he had been a singularly gifted student for seven full years.  
  
It was a grim day indeed when Snape called him into his office to go over with him which exams would be open to him, and which would not.  
  
He started with the good news.  
  
"You will still be able to take quite a few of the N.E.W.T.s- a majority of them, in fact; History of Magic, Ancient Runes, Muggle Studies, Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, Astronomy, and... Potions," Snape said quietly.  
  
Draco's face was devoid of expression. "That's all?"  
  
Snape sighed unhappily. "That's all."  
  
"Charms?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Defense?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Transfiguration?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Divination?"  
  
"You're not even in that rubbish class."  
  
"But if I were, could I take the exam?"  
  
"Draco... no."  
  
Draco had stood, his face tight. "All right- thank you, professor."  
  
Behind his desk, Snape had also gotten to his feet, just as Draco had started to turn for the door. "Draco-"  
  
"Yes?" The tone was flat; dull.  
  
"You could have a very bright career ahead of you in potions-making, you know, regardless of whether-"  
  
Draco cut him off. "Thank you, professor," he said again, this time with an edge to his voice, and moved toward the door.  
  
"Draco."  
  
"Yes?" This time the word was positively ground out.  
  
"Are you-"  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
He'd said that when he'd been dying too. Snape felt a monster headache coming on.  
  
"You know I'm here if-"  
  
"Thank you, professor." And he was gone. 


	25. Chapter 25: Mummy

"But Mr. Malfoy, your parents would hardly have approved of-"  
  
Draco held up a hand. "Let's go over this one more time," he said, in a quiet, dangerous voice.  
  
00000  
  
It was two weeks to the day after Ron's funeral, and N.E.W.Ts were a thing of the past. Draco had been summoned to Dumbledore's office at about ten in the morning, to find two respectable looking, middle aged wizards waiting for him there. He'd recognized them at once; the senior partners of the wizarding law firm that had handled his family's affairs for years. They had both stood when he'd entered the room.  
  
"Mister Malfoy," they had intoned as one.  
  
"Gentlemen," he'd returned, taken aback, but not showing it. His eyes had scanned the room and settled on the headmaster, standing beside Fawkes' perch, absently stroking the magnificent bird.  
  
"Draco," Dumbledore had said gently, "these men are here to discuss your inheritance with you. I have taken the liberty of sending for Miss Granger as well; as your fiancée, I believe she has a right to be present for this. I trust you make no objection?"  
  
"Of course not," Draco had replied smoothly, concealing his immense relief at the fact that he would not have to face this ordeal alone. At that very moment, the door had opened once more and Hermione had entered, looking bewildered. She'd been in the library when she had received Dumbledore's urgent message, using the first day after exams were done to launch an exhaustive research effort into wizards and witches who had lost their magic as adults, and whether they had ever recovered their powers. The information she had yielded so far was not encouraging.  
  
The headmaster had smiled benignly at her. "Just so, just so," he'd said. "And now I will be leaving you to your palaver. Take as long as you like," and he'd been through the door and gone before it had even closed behind Hermione.  
  
The four people remaining in the room had pulled chairs up to Dumbledore's large desk, whereupon the solicitors had wasted no time in spreading forms and parchments over every inch of its surface, and informing Draco in their stiff and formal way that all affairs regarding his parents' finances were now in order, and he stood to inherit a rather tidy sum of one hundred and twenty million galleons.  
  
How fortunate that the manor and everything in it had been heavily insured.  
  
Draco had glanced to the side, to see Hermione's dark eyes as wide as saucers. He'd smiled inwardly. She was probably the only girl on earth who would have been dating him for over a year without ever having given a thought to how much he was potentially worth. She was also the only girl on earth who, engaged to him now, wouldn't castrate him for what he was about to do.  
  
Because he wanted no part of his parents' blood money.  
  
"How does my inheritance from my grandparents stand?" he had asked. "The one I came into when I turned seventeen?"  
  
The solicitors had seemed faintly surprised at the question, but had, obligingly enough, dug out the appropriate paperwork. "It stands at twenty- seven million galleons," said the elder of the two, bending over a parchment and reading carefully through a monocle.  
  
Draco had frowned, puzzled. "Has that sum grown since I inherited it?"  
  
"Why, yes," said the solicitor, "it has been very wisely invested. Is that what you would like to do with this new inheritance as well?"  
  
"No," Draco had said decisively, reaching to clasp Hermione's hand in his. "Here is what I want you to do."  
  
00000  
  
Which brought them back to the present, in which the solicitors were staring at him, appalled, as he repeated his plans for the money, in a tone that brooked no argument.  
  
"The only money I am interested in keeping," he said, "is the inheritance from my grandparents, which I came into on my seventeenth birthday. Is that understood?"  
  
"Yes, but Mister Malfoy-"  
  
Draco cut the man off. "As for this new inheritance, this hundred and twenty million galleons. Listen carefully, and you may want to take notes, because I expect my instructions to be carried out exactly." He waited while the younger of the men set a quick-quotes quill over a fresh sheet of parchment before continuing.  
  
"All right," he said then. "The money is to be divided into three equal sums. Forty million galleons are to be converted into Muggle money and donated to the Muggle charity known as the Red Cross, with a stipulation that the money be used only for the purpose of educating Muggle youth in the Muggle lifesaving technique known as CPR." He paused for a moment, waiting for the quill to come to a standstill once again before continuing. "The second forty million galleons are to be donated to Hogwarts, with a stipulation that this sum be used to implement a program at the school whereby all wizarding youth in attendance, ages fourteen and older, shall also be taught the Muggle lifesaving technique known as CPR. Students shall be taught CPR within one month of entering their fourth year at Hogwarts, and shall receive a refresher course during the first month of their fifth, sixth and seventh years as well." Again he paused, allowing the quill to finish writing. "Finally," he said then, "the last forty million galleons shall also be donated to Hogwarts, as a scholarship fund for promising Muggle-born witches and wizards, who would not otherwise be able to afford the school's tuition and fees." He smirked inwardly to himself, hoping that wherever his father was now, he could see exactly what his son was doing; using the family fortune, which had been jealously guarded for generations, to benefit exactly the sort of people that Lucius and Narcissa had despised the most; POOR MUDBLOODS.  
  
Still, it wasn't quite enough. It was time to add insult to injury; to put the icing on the cake. "Furthermore," he said, once the quill had caught up again, "all three of these gifts are to be made in loving memory of my parents. My mother was very gifted with healing magic, you know, and I'm sure would have been most interested in learning about CPR, if, alas, she had ever been given the opportunity, so the donations to Hogwarts will be named thus; The Narcissa Malfoy Memorial Fund for Muggle Lifesaving Techniques, and the Lucius Malfoy Memorial Scholarship Fund. The gift to the Muggle charity shall be made in both their names, with all appropriate fanfare."  
  
He was quiet again then, no longer out of consideration for the quill that was transcribing his every word, but simply now because he was thinking hard, his mind working over any loose ends that could use tying up. At length he asked, "out of the twenty-seven million that I am keeping, how much is not currently tied up in investments? How much is available in hard currency in my Gringott's vault?"  
  
The solicitors, though both looked extremely put out by this point, clearly disapproving heavily of Draco's plans for his new inheritance, nevertheless wasted no time in shuffling through their parchments until they came up with the information Draco desired.  
  
"Just shy of half a million galleons," one of them reported.  
  
"Hm." Draco thought a moment longer, then said, squeezing Hermione's hand as he did so, "better add another million to it; I'm going to be getting married and setting up house very soon. As for the rest of the twenty- seven, carry on with the investments. And as to the one hundred and twenty... I trust my instructions in that matter will be carried out to the letter, and in good time?"  
  
The younger of the men nodded silently as he began organizing the scattered parchments back into neat stacks in preparation for leaving, but the elder, who looked by now as though he'd just been force fed about a dozen large lemons, could no longer contain himself.  
  
"Mister Malfoy," he burst out suddenly, "may I have permission to speak plainly?"  
  
Draco inclined his head slightly. "Please."  
  
"You have to know that your parents would hardly approve of the plans you have made for their money! I have personally served your family for nearly two decades, and I know perfectly well, as you yourself must, that if they could... could see... THIS-" and he seized the parchment that contained Draco's instructions and waved it across the desk at him- "they would be rolling over in their graves!"  
  
Draco leaned forward in his seat and graced the man with a smile so cold, so feral, so deadly, that he shrank back, effectively silenced. "That my good man," said Draco, calmly, but with an unmistakably wicked gleam in his eye, "is precisely the point."  
  
At this, the solicitor was reduced to stuttering, "but- but-"  
  
Draco raised an eyebrow. He did not raise his voice. "Let's get one thing straight," he said matter-of-factly. "My parents are dead. This is now my money, and you are now my- bloody- lawyers. So... once and for all... can you, or can you not, carry out my instructions? If the answer is no, tell me now, so that we can all stop wasting our time and I can start looking for a different law firm to handle my affairs."  
  
The two wizards sitting before him may have felt loyalty to his parents after years of service to the family, and may even have sympathized with his parents' viewpoints concerning Muggle-born witches and wizards- though not strongly enough to have ever participated in illegal activities- (these were upstanding citizens and strictly law abiding men)- but they were, first and foremost, businessmen, and realized that even if he were hereafter to be worth a "mere" twenty-seven million galleons, Draco Malfoy was a client worth keeping.  
  
"We are more than capable of handling your affairs, Mister Malfoy," the younger man said. "We will owl you once it has been done; I think you will quite satisfied at how quickly and competently your orders shall be carried out."  
  
Draco stood, Hermione following suit. "Thank you, gentlemen," he said, as the solicitors both rose as well.  
  
The young couple was through the door, it was just whispering shut behind them, when they heard the older solicitor murmur to the younger one, "no wonder they in the process of disowning him."  
  
Draco stopped stock still, and turned very slowly back around, his foot catching the door, holding it open.  
  
"Procrastination, gentlemen," he said, smiling that same deathly cold smile. "It has been over a year since my parents and I... fell out, if you will. They had plenty of time in which to complete the process, yet they procrastinated. I can lay claim to as many faults as the next man, but thankfully, procrastination was one fault of my parents that I did not inherit from them. I neither indulge in it, nor put up with it. Therefore. I had been going to trust in you to carry out my instructions in your own time, but no longer. You now have thirty-six hours in which to see them completed, or I take my business elsewhere. Good day."  
  
00000  
  
Hermione and Harry shared a brief, surreptitious glance, careful not to let Draco catch them at it. They were both beginning to rethink the wisdom of this little outing; a day in the Muggle world, introducing Draco to such Muggle pastimes as seeing a movie, visiting a video arcade, and going to the mall. It was the middle of their last week at Hogwarts- commencement would be on Saturday- and though the younger students were in the midst of exams, the seventh-years, who had completed their N.E.W.T.'s already, were free all week long, with leave to come and go from the school as they liked during the daylight hours, seeing as they were now considered fully functioning adult witches and wizards.  
  
Harry and Hermione had hoped that over the course of this day they would encounter something- anything- that would capture Draco's interest, that would cause him to show even a hint of enthusiasm, but so far, no dice. He was so obviously miserable, though he was putting on an effort to be stoic about the whole thing.  
  
Even his occasional queries of "what the hell is that?" were dull and listless.  
  
Hermione ran a hand through her curls. "Draco... what time is it?" she asked. She had bought him a digital watch earlier in the day, before lunch. She'd been encouraged to see that he had at least put it on his wrist (his right wrist- being a leftie), and had fiddled with the buttons, squinting at the instructions, in an attempt to set the time- refusing, typically, to ask either Harry or herself for assistance. He had not, however, so far as she could tell, glanced at it again since.  
  
He did now, and his brow furrowed immediately. "Eighteen-forty-two? What the fuck does THAT mean?"  
  
Hermione took his wrist in her hand and bent over the watch. She was glad in that moment for her long, thick hair, which tumbled over her face, obscuring it from Draco's view and hiding the small, almost reluctant smile that tugged briefly at the corners of her lips. It was gone in the next instant, though, as she looked up and met his pale eyes, which bore an expression of irritated frustration that he had apparently not managed to set the watch correctly.  
  
She did not smile often these days, and when the smiles did come, they never lasted long.  
  
"It's perfectly correct," she informed him. "It's just that you set it to military time. It would have looked the same as 'normal' time this morning, when you set it, but after noon it's different. All it means is that its six-forty-two and we should look for a little place to have some dinner before we get back to school."  
  
Harry glanced up and down the street they were on, his eyes finally settling on a small restaurant decorated with colorful paper lanterns strung across the door and windows. With a small, and somewhat forced, smile, he suggested, "how about sushi?"  
  
"What the hell is that?" Draco asked tiredly.  
  
00000  
  
_He dodged to the left, yanking the hood of Potter's cloak back up over his head as he did so, vanishing entirely from sight once again. Two jets of green light whizzed through the air where he had allowed himself to be seen a fraction of a second before- followed by two muffled thumps as a pair of bodies fell heavily to the grass, dead.  
  
Nott and the elder Zabini; apparently in their excitement at spotting him they had forgotten his mother's No-Avada-Kedavra rule, and now he had two fewer adversaries to worry about.  
  
He was making it a point to kill as many of his mother's followers as he could in this manner; selecting a pair who were standing fairly close to one another and then appearing directly between them, allowing them a brief, tantalizing glimpse... and then vanishing again and moving- fast- as they both unleashed spells in his direction. If he was lucky, the spells would cross and his enemies would end up doing his dirty work for him; killing each other.  
  
This didn't work in every case, of course; plenty of them he had to kill himself. But the more of them he could trick into killing one another, the better- because that way, when the Aurors showed up to investigate- and oh, they would come; this was the largest scale bloodshed since before the fall of Voldemort- they could run tests on the victims' wands and discover that they had been turned one against another with deadly intent. The whole incident would be chalked up to infighting amongst the former Death Eaters, the Ministry would say good riddance, and that would be the end; case closed.  
  
This was what Draco was hoping for... assuming, of course, that he made it out of here alive.  
  
He crouched down a few feet away from the bodies and waited in silence as Blaise, who had witnessed his father's demise from a distance of several yards, approached at a run.  
  
"DAD!" Blaise threw himself to his knees beside his fallen father, and Draco couldn't help envying him for the briefest moment- envying him that he and his father had been close enough that Blaise was grieved by his death. Draco couldn't imagine ever having been moved to make such a display for Lucius, even before the time they had been mortal enemies. There had always been a certain... coldness to the relationship, long before it had disintegrated into outright hatred.  
  
But Draco had no time to reflect, as Blaise was on his feet again in the next instant, wand at the ready, staring around with wild eyes. "Malfoy!" He howled, breathing hard. "You fucking coward! You sorry son of a bitch! Show yourself!"  
  
Draco straightened up as silently as he could, thinking,_ that's pretty fucking rich, him calling me a coward because I won't just come out in the open against fifteen-to-one odds... _but the odds weren't fifteen-to-one anymore; they were down to about five-to-one now, including Blaise. The grass was littered with bodies.  
  
Silently, stealthily, he crept around behind Zabini. When he got close enough, he reached out and hit Zabini with the flat of his hand, hard on the back of the head. As Blaise first stumbled forward, then rounded on him, snarling, Draco pushed back the hood of the invisibility cloak once more.  
  
Here was the bastard who had delivered Hermione to his father, after all. There was no doubt in Draco's mind that Lucius must have had an inside man at Hogwarts, and Zabini had been it. Zabini had delivered Hermione up for torture... for rape... for death.  
  
Draco was going to look him straight in the eye as he sent him to join his bloody father.  
  
For a long moment, the two boys, former Housemates, former dorm mates, former playmates- stared at each other in silent hatred. Then, the sound of running footsteps and a shouted curse alerted Draco to the fact that someone besides Zabini had seen his head hovering there, apparently disembodied, the rest of him still concealed beneath the cloak.  
  
He jerked his head back, and a stream of purple light (purple? What the hell does that do?) zinged past his nose. Blaise, taking advantage of his momentary distraction, unleashed a spell of his own; a jet of yellow light that Draco recognized as a knife-edge curse.  
  
It had been aimed squarely at his chest, but his quick reflexes saved him. He threw himself to the side, and the curse managed only to open a deep, but not life-threatening, gash on his upper arm. He hit the ground, rolled as yet another curse flew over his head, and came up with his right hand pressed to this newest wound, blood seeping through his fingers- but his left hand, despite the pain high up on his arm, was steady, his wand trained unwaveringly on Blaise's heart.  
  
His hood was still thrown back, his head still visible, and so he got his wish. He got to look Zabini right in the eye as he spoke the words of the killing curse. A flash of green light, and Blaise crumpled beside his father.  
  
It occurred to Draco briefly, and without the burden of much emotion, that Mrs. Zabini was going to have a rough day tomorrow.  
  
Then he was yanking his hood up and throwing himself to the ground once more, gritting his teeth against the flare of bright, hot pain in his arm, to escape the onslaught of yet more spells as the elder Crabbe and Goyle, who did everything together, much like their sons, bore down on him. Once he took care of them, there would be only two left; his mad bitch aunt... and his mother.  
  
_00000  
  
_And that was what it all came down to; Draco and his mother, facing off in a wizards' duel on the lawn of their home, which was strewn with bodies, and glass from the dozens of broken windows, out of which great billows of black smoke were now pouring. Clearly the fire which had started in Draco's private library was spreading fast.  
  
After pulling the old tease-em-with-a-glimpse-and-disappear trick on Crabbe and Goyle, and successfully getting the two not-overly-bright wizards to off each other for him, he had taken on his Aunt Bella. He had not been looking forward to this as, ironically enough, it was the two women present- his mother and aunt- whom he feared the most; they were vicious, the both of them, and the hatred they bore him was of a more personal nature than that of the others, and burned all the brighter as a result.  
  
Yet in the end he had triumphed over his aunt, though she had given him something to remember her by; one of her curses, a lucky guess as to his position, since he'd been invisible at the time, had picked him up and hurled him several feet through the air and into the side of the house; he'd seen stars when he'd smacked it, and as he'd fallen the four feet or so to the grass, his vision had darkened. He'd been sure that this was finally it. It would have been, too, had his legs supported him when his feed hit the ground- but as luck would have it, they had not. His legs had buckled and he had collapsed to his knees, so that her next spell had slammed into the wall above his head, showering electric blue sparks down on him. He had realized then that his hood was askew and his head partly visible; he'd thrown himself flat, pulling his hood up just in time to avoid yet another curse, then rolling over and over, several times until he was a good few feet away.  
  
With his vision still doing alarming things, with the world feeling as though it was rocking and tilting beneath his feet, with his breath coming in short, harsh gasps- he thought he had cracked, or at least badly bruised, a rib or two when he'd hit that wall- he had managed to drag himself back to his feet and aim the killing curse at her as she raced to where she'd last seen him, on his knees in the grass, and began swearing and kicking savagely at thin air.  
  
"Aunt Bell," he had said, his voice ragged, pushing his hood back once more.  
  
She had whirled about, her expression shocked at finding him on his feet. He was rather shocked to find_ himself _on his feet, actually, but he wasn't about to lose the advantage her surprise gave him. He'd acted fast. A flash of green light later, she'd been dead on the grass, that amazed expression still on her face. _

00000  
  
_Draco swayed on his feet. His injuries were catching up to him. They were, by this point, really beginning to impair his reflexes; his strength, his speed, even his awareness of his surroundings; of anything outside the pain in his ribs, his arm, the numerous other cuts and bruises and gashes he'd sustained all over his body. Then there was the fact that the ground beneath his feet, like some vast, ornery animal, still seemed determined to buck him right off; it was still tilting and rocking and attempting to throw him to his knees.  
  
It was no great surprise, therefore, that his mother managed to walk right up behind him and shove the tip of her wand hard into his back, right between the shoulder blades. The most impressive thing about this feat, really, was her ability to find just that spot, seeing as only his head was visible.  
  
She could have killed him right then.  
  
She could have, but she didn't.  
  
Instead she said- nearly purred- in his ear, "turn around, Draco. Turn around and face me. I want to look into your eyes, my only son, my traitor child."  
  
Draco obeyed silently, turning slowly to face her. She took a step back, but kept her wand trained on him. He stood there with his legs slightly splayed for balance, his right hand, by now entirely crimson with blood, once again gripping his left arm, his wand held in his left hand, but loosely, pointing down toward the ground, his teeth gritted and head bowed slightly forward, staring at her through the fringe of hair that hung forward over his brow, which was now beaded with perspiration.  
  
"Mother," he said simply, still through clenched teeth.  
  
Narcissa shook her head. "I would it were not so," she said. "I wish I had been barren."  
  
Draco made no reply. Really, what did one say to that?  
  
She regarded him a long moment more- committing him to memory, perhaps? then abruptly shook her head as if to clear it.  
  
"I haven't seen you in over a year," she said then, almost conversationally, "and you look more like him than you ever did. Your father, whom you murdered here tonight. You wretched, ungrateful boy. How is it that you can look so fair, so like him, and yet be rotted on the inside, rotted clear through?"  
  
Draco only glared. If his mother had been hoping to engage in some lively verbal sparring while holding him at wandpoint, then she was just going to have to be disappointed. He'd been through too much today. He didn't have it in him to stand here and trade insults with this woman. He was on the verge of collapse, and was making a conscious effort to hold all his strength, all his focus, together for one final act- the act of killing her.  
  
But if he didn't get the opportunity soon...  
  
It appeared to Draco that behind Narcissa a wall of darkness was gathering. Gathering and beginning advance upon him.  
  
No. He was not going to pass out, not here, not now, not like this. If he did, he would never wake up; she would see to that. And in the near future she would discover that Hermione was not dead at the hands of her husband, that she had been rescued... and then she would see to Hermione too.  
  
This last thought affected him far more than the reality of his own danger at the moment. The fact that if he allowed this woman to kill him and walk away she would undoubtedly go on to hunt down his beloved- that was what gave him a second wind. It could not be allowed to happen.  
  
He blinked hard and gave his head a single, decisive shake to clear it. The darkness receded. It still hovered at the very edges of his vision, but it no longer threatened to overwhelm him- not for the moment, anyway.  
  
Narcissa saw his eyes clear- and hers hardened.  
  
"What do you want to do, mother?" he asked.  
  
She answered him with a single word.  
  
"Duel."  
  
Immediately upon saying this, she whipped her wand sharply up and then down in a salute, then simply stood there, wand at her side, no longer pointing at him, and waited for him to follow suit.  
  
The first thing Draco did was to push the cloak back over both shoulders, so that it hung straight down behind him and his body was entirely visible again; it was only fair, after all, that she should see him as clearly as he could see her, in a duel.  
  
He would fight with honor, by God.  
  
He then returned the salute, slowly, wearily, and they each turned to pace off the prescribed distance.  
  
He had gotten nearly the full ten paces before his every instinct screamed at him to dodge. He threw himself off to the right, and that was how he came to have the deep, jagged wound in his side; had his instincts failed him, his mother's curse would have hit him squarely in the back.  
  
The pain didn't hit him right away, which was a good thing. It was eclipsed by his outrage at her treachery. He had expected something like this from his father- but for some reason, it had never occurred to him that his mother was equally dishonorable- if not more so. Cruel, yes, he knew she was cruel, and cold, selfish and ruthless. But he had never pegged her for a cheater. The last attempt of a disillusioned little boy to think well of his own mother had been shattered.  
  
He rolled and came back to his feet, aware only that his side was very warm, warm and wet and sticky. He shook his hair out of his eyes just in time to see his mother hurl another spell at him, and dodged it with rather more success than he had the first... as he could see this one coming.  
  
Bitch! His mind was screaming. That- conniving- bitch!  
  
He fired off a spell of his own, and the battle was joined.  
  
_00000  
  
_He had no way of keeping track of time during the vicious, desperate fight that followed. It could have been minutes; it could have been hours, as Malfoy Manor burned in the night and the last two Malfoys waged open war upon one another.  
  
It was all he could do to keep up with his mother; dueling her was like fighting three merciless opponents at once. They had fought until they were both on their knees, until more of the spells they hurled at one another went astray than found their target. They had fought until Draco was clinging to consciousness by a thread, and it appeared to him that his mother was in similar condition.  
  
He gathered all his remaining concentration for one more spell; he could feel that that was all he lad left in him- only just that much strength, and no more. This showdown with his mother was about to end, one way or another. He hurled a final spell at her without even being aware of what spell it was- it was a simple spell, that was all he knew for sure. It had to be, at this point, if he wanted it to be effective. Out of the past several spells he had sent her way, two of the more complicated ones had not even reached her; they had petered out halfway, dying in a shower of sparks, and he had never seen such a thing happen before; hadn't even been aware that it could happen- and it scared the shit out of him; something was not right.  
  
She sent a spell at him almost simultaneously; the two jets of light seemed to collide in mid-air, and careen off of one another- or at least it appeared so to Draco, but he couldn't be sure; that wall of darkness was rushing at him again, nearly as quickly as his mother's curse. It also seemed to him that his curse continued toward her and struck her, though not full-on as he had intended, having been knocked off-course by the collision. Her spell missed him entirely, shooting off past his shoulder, and, watching her, he thought he saw her fall; fall from her knees flat onto her back. But he didn't get to see whether she stayed down, for at that moment the darkness struck him and knocked him flat.  
  
He didn't lose consciousness- he held onto it grimly, through an act of sheer will. He found himself staring straight up at the smoky sky and repeating over and over again, like a mantra, "Hermione is alive... she needs me," until the darkness had passed.  
  
But he wasn't able to keep track of his mother. To have done something even as simple as turning his head to the side would have threatened his tenuous grip on consciousness. It was several moments before he managed to fight off the darkness to the point where he could roll over, push himself first to his knees and then to his feet, and look, finally, over to where she'd been lying.  
  
And he didn't see anything there.  
  
The place where he'd been sure he had seen her collapse was empty. The grass appeared trampled, but there was no body there.  
  
Again heeding a strong instinct- he was operating largely on instinct by now- he pulled the invisibility cloak forward over himself once more, and reached back with his uninjured arm to tug the hood up over his head, vanishing completely from view again. Then he turned his back on the place where his mother had been and began to stumble toward the gate.  
  
He only made it halfway.  
  
The wall of darkness slammed into him again, and this time it slammed into him from behind, just like his mother's first, dishonorable curse. He never saw it coming. It threw him forward, flat on his face, and the last thing he saw before his eyes won out over his will and dragged themselves slowly shut was the iron gate he'd been making for- the gate that marked his freedom from this cursed land he had renounced; the gate he needed to pass through to escape this killing ground that had once been his home.  
  
It looked so far away.  
  
And even after his eyes had closed, he didn't slip into unconsciousness immediately; no, there was a time, an indeterminate time, that he lay there on the grass, feeling it tickle his face, smelling smoke and blood- his own blood- and death, aware of the hot stickiness that was his side, and aware of something else, too- a voice, it seemed, calling him.  
  
Was it real? It could have been nothing more than fevered imagination- he simply didn't know. But he knew he heard it, sometimes closer, sometimes further away; a familiar voice with a sweet, lilting tone that he remembered from rare- oh, so rare- occasions in his childhood.  
  
He had learned long ago that that lilting tone was false- it boded no good for him- it only meant that she wanted to find him for some purpose of her own. Still, even now it was like a siren song, making him want to answer, and so perhaps it was a blessing that he was too weak to do so. If the voice was, in fact, real- answering would surely have sealed his fate.  
  
"Draco!" the voice was calling; sweet, affectionate, concerned. "Draco, darling? Where are you? Mother knows you're hurt, love... show me where you are, so I can help you! Draco? Draaacooo..."  
  
It was at this point that all consciousness fled.  
_  
00000  
  
He awoke on the morning of graduation, in the early hours before the sky had lightened, groggy and disoriented, soaked in clammy sweat from the nightmare reliving of his one-man war. He was alone in his bed, in his Head Boy room (he had not shared Hermione's bed since they had returned from Malfoy Manor- they had not discussed it, but he knew she was not ready). He was curled in a fetal position, one arm pressed to his side, the other thrown over his head as if in an attempt to conceal or protect his face, and before he could come back to any awareness of his surroundings, a single whispered, half-choked, lost-sounding word escaped his lips;  
  
"Mummy."


	26. Chapter 26: Commencement & an Argument

Commencement was a solemn affair indeed. For this special event, the graduating students were seated alphabetically, rather than by House- and no one could fail to notice that the final two chairs, which should have belonged to Ron Weasley and Blaise Zabini, were left painfully, glaringly empty; a set of each boy's dress robes, neatly folded, lying on the seats of their respective chairs in tribute.

The mood wasn't helped any by the near-constant, barely stifled sobbing of both Molly Weasley and Roberta Zabini; the Weasleys and what was left of the decimated Zabini family- namely, Roberta herself- having been invited to attend as honored guests. And then there was the fact that at least half of the graduating Slytherins had lost family members- mostly parents, but in Pansy's case, a sibling as well- in the now well-documented battle royale of the former Death Eaters. Draco and Hermione, when they rose to give their respective Head Boy and Head Girl speeches, were both subdued; at one point Hermione trailed off as her gaze was drawn inexorably to Ron's empty seat and, gripping the podium in front of her with white-knuckled hands, tears standing out in her eyes, she clearly had to struggle hard to maintain at least some semblance of composure. The hurt in her eyes was so deep and so clear that it was all Draco could do at that point to stay in his seat- his every instinct screamed at him to vault up onto the conjured stage, and, spectators be damned, wrap her in his arms and never let go.

Nor did things get any easier after the ceremony. At the reception for graduating students and their families, in the Great Hall, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife as Mr. and Mrs. Granger met their daughter's boyfriend for the first time- and learned simultaneously that he was, in fact, no longer her boyfriend, but her fiancé- and that the young couple had already begun making plans to wed in the fall.

While the Grangers were aware that in the wizarding world it was accepted and, indeed, commonplace for couples to wed at seventeen, eighteen, nineteen years of age, this did not change the fact that it was practically unheard of in the society of which the elder Grangers were a part- they had never imagined that their only child would marry just after her eighteenth birthday; the announcement stunned them. But the thing that added insult to injury was Hermione's quiet, yet firm, declaration that she would not even be returning home for one last summer; she and Draco had been granted permission by Dumbledore to remain in their Head rooms at Hogwarts for the next eight weeks, the better to supervise the construction of their new home in Hogsmeade (wizarding construction taking far less time than that of Muggles, the house would be completed easily within two months.) The land had already been purchased; a good-sized parcel overlooking the Hogwarts lake- and the groundbreaking was scheduled for the very next day.

Eventually the foursome- Draco, Hermione, and her parents- split in two, with Mr. Granger taking Draco off for a mano-a-mano out on the grounds, and Hermione remaining in the company of her decidedly distraught mother, attempting to placate her. When they reunited some time later, back in the Great Hall, which was by now nearly empty, the reception drawing to a close, both parents were at least somewhat pacified- though still rather less than pleased with the turn their young daughter's life had so rapidly taken. Draco had put across to Hermione's father, though not in so many words, that he would readily kill or die for his daughter (he had neglected to say that he had already done the former, and very nearly done the latter), and Mr. Granger had sensed that the boy was sincere. As for Hermione's mother, well, her ruffled feathers had smoothed themselves with near miraculous speed when she had demanded of her daughter just how two seventeen-year-olds without jobs as of yet planned on supporting themselves... and had learned, consequently, just what Draco was worth. Not that she was an overly materialistic woman, but still... what mother doesn't dream that her daughter will find true love with a fabulously wealthy man? And when one factored in that the galleon-to-pound exchange rate was better than five-to-one... well, Draco's fortune looked _very_ appealing to his future mother-in-law.

Still, both Mr. and Mrs. Granger begged Hermione once again, before leaving, to reconsider and accompany them home, at least for a few weeks. They had been treating her like glass ever since the "incident" in sixth year... she could only imagine how they would react if they were to hear of her much more recent trauma. But they knew nothing of it, nor would they, if it were up to her... and, it just so happened, it was. In sixth year, she had been underage, and so her parents had been notified as a matter of course. Now, however, she was seventeen and a legal adult in the wizarding world, and the decision of whether to tell them about the recent... events... at Malfoy Manor rested on her and her alone.

And she would never tell them.

It could do no possible good, she reasoned; only harm. They would be beside themselves; flat-out hysterical. They had often wondered over the course of the years, even before the Voldemort incident, whether allowing their daughter to become a part of the war-torn wizarding world had been a wise decision... and last year she had had to _beg_ them to allow her to return for her final year at Hogwarts. If they knew what she'd been through in her seventh year... she had visions of them going so far as to attempt to have her "kidnapped" back from the wizarding world, as some parents have their children kidnapped back from malevolent cults. And once she was back in their custody, in the Muggle world, she would have to abide by Muggle laws, which stated that she would be under their guardianship for months yet.

Months before she could decide, as a _Muggle_ adult, to return to the wizarding world which, as bleak and dangerous as it could be at times, had become her home.

Months without Draco.

She honestly didn't think she could survive that.

So she made the decision that she considered best for both her parents' peace of mind and her own. The past was the past and couldn't be altered- well, except for certain rare instances, she allowed- but this wasn't one of them- so why add to her parents' grief- and by so doing, add to her own? It didn't make sense.

Still, her parents were her parents, and she their only child, and so it went without saying that they sensed something amiss in their daughter on this day. A deep and desperate sadness, lurking beneath her surface, that had not been there even in the wake of last year's attack... that they weren't entirely sure even the death of one of her best friends fully accounted for. And so they reached a conclusion that was quite natural, given that they knew only part of what was troubling their daughter. If this sense of melancholy that she was conveying so strongly, if unintentionally, to their parent-radar went deeper than her rape last year, and deeper even still than Ron's death, as they sensed it did- then it must have to do with this boy, they concluded; this Draco Malfoy. She seemed adamant about marrying him, but... was she being coerced in some way? The fact that she refused to come home with them for even so much as a single week was, to them, yet one more red flag.

So it was only with great reluctance, many worried backward glances, and not a few tears on Hermione's mother's part, that they at long last allowed themselves to be herded away with the rest of the Muggle relatives, for group transport back to London.

00000

As soon as they were out of sight, Hermione literally sagged against Draco, as if too exhausted to stand another moment. He wrapped both arms protectively about her and they left the Great Hall like that, Harry- who had had no relatives in attendance and had been standing with the Weasleys, feeling miserably- and not entirely erroneously- that though they were as warm and loving toward him as ever- _almost_- they would never quite forgive him for not being the one to die- joining them on the stairs. He had also obtained permission from Dumbledore to stay at Hogwarts that summer while he sorted out what to do with the rest of his life, seeing as he had nowhere else to go- his relatives, understanding that he was now a legal adult in the wizarding world, had flatly refused to allow him into their house again... and that was fine, because wild thestrals couldn't have dragged him back there anyway.  Sirius had, of course, extended him an invitation to stay with _him_ until he got on his feet, but Harry had declined- he only had one best friend left, and she was nowhere near recovered from her ordeal yet- not emotionally, anyway- and he had the distinct feeling that she needed him close.  And if he were to be perfectly honest with himself, he would have to admit that he needed her close as well.  Needed her desperately right now.

So it was a subdued group of three that made their way back up to Gryffindor Tower, wending through corridors and up staircase after staircase amid the whoops and shouts and laughter and general, milling chaos that was the last full day before the Hogwarts Express would chug out of the station for another summer holiday. A third of the way up the final flight of stairs Hermione stumbled- she was so exhausted, wrung out from emotion, that she could barely see straight- and Draco swept her into his arms and carried her the rest of the way, Harry opening the portrait hole for them and saying a quiet goodbye in the common room.

Draco headed down the short hallway to their rooms, shouldered open her door, which she had left ajar in haste on her way down to the ceremony some hours before, and, crossing to the bed, laid her gently on it. Pressing a kiss on her forehead, he turned to leave then, but was stopped in his tracks by her voice, low and hesitant, from behind him.

"Draco... stay with me?"

He turned and gave her a long, searching look, and she raised herself up on her elbows, though he saw that even this was a struggle for her- her eyelids were literally dropping with fatigue- and held out a hand beseechingly.

"Sure?" he asked at last.

Her voice was the barest of whispers when she answered, "I don't want to be alone."

That decided him- as if he could ever deny her- he crossed to the door, but only to close and lock it, then shrugged out of the dress robes he had worn to commencement while she, on the bed, did the same. And then he was beside her, both of them in only their underthings, and he was holding onto her as if his life depended on it, and it did, God, yes, he had learned that lesson well enough; it did.

This was how they fell asleep in the same bed- other than when they'd been barely alive in the hospital wing- for the first time since their breakup, well before Hermione had been taken.

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He shouldn't have been surprised at her reaction upon waking, really. But seeing as they awoke at nearly the same time, the result being that he was groggy, and disoriented at finding himself in unfamiliar surroundings- they had once been familiar, but that had been some time ago; it felt like a _lifetime_ ago- he was caught off-guard and it took him several long seconds to realize what was going on. What it all meant- Hermione stiffening suddenly in his arms, the muffled sound of distress she made against his chest before pushing him violently away from her, nearly causing him to fall off the bed- and by the time he'd regained his own balance, she _was_ off the bed; she'd scrambled off the other side of it, landed in a heap on the floor, as uncoordinated as he was in her half-awake state, and scooted backwards until she was sitting pressed against the wall.

"Hermione," he said cautiously, his voice hoarse and croaky with sleep.

She stared at him with wide eyes, but they were alarmingly blank- she wasn't seeing him, not really, she was seeing something else entirely, and as his faculties returned to him, he thought he had a pretty damn good idea of what.

_That sick fucking bastard. One death was too bloody good for him._

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

She pulled her legs tightly up to her chin.

Draco sighed and ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the last vestiges of sleep.

"Look at me, Hermione," he said quietly. "Please, love. Really _look_."

No dice. She buried her face in her knees and began to rock slightly.

"Shit," Draco muttered. "shitshit_shit_."

Should he stay where he was? Should he keep trying to talk sense to her? Or go over there? Pull her into his arms and hold on no matter what, as Snape had done for him in the hospital wing when he'd realized...

(_Don't want to think about that now. Or ever, really._)

Was that what she needed? Would it help? Or only make her hysterical? She looked to be making _herself_ hysterical.

Some sort of action was called for.

He eased off the edge of the bed, advancing on her very slowly, as unthreateningly as he possibly could. It really hardly seemed to matter. She appeared to be lost to him anyway, with her face still hidden from view, burrowed between her knees and obscured by her vast amounts of sleep-tousled hair. She didn't react until he was right there beside her, until he decided that Snape's way was probably the best suited to this situation, and drew her into his arms.

Then she went berserk.

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"Hermione... Hermione..." Draco kept saying her name over and over as he gently stroked her tangled hair, at a loss for what else to say. She had fought him kicking and screaming, fought until she could fight no more, could barely move, and now she lay in his arms, panting, her struggles having finally lessened to the point where she at last lay, defeated, against him- not due to acceptance of him, but rather because her strength had given out.

Though she lay against his chest now, no longer trying to break away, her body was far from relaxed; she was taut and trembling, her breathing harsh, shallow and erratic.

Hence his efforts to comfort her by stroking her hair and murmuring her name. It seemed to be having little, if any, effect, however.

"Hermione," he tried again, "listen, remember... remember the unicorns. Remember... the time I took you down there, and we saw Pansy. You didn't believe they'd come, but they did. Remember the last night, when I took pictures of them in your lap." He could feel the tension beginning to leave her, could sense her going suddenly very still, listening. He was getting through to her. "It's me, Draco," he said quietly. "I know what you were thinking when you woke up, but that's over, love. I swear to you, you're safe, and you're going to remain safe. I swear, Hermione, so help me..."

She raised her head abruptly, her eyes intense, boring into his. "How did you know that?" she whispered.

"How did I know what?" he asked in confusion, and reached out to cup her cheek, to wipe a tear away, but she shied back from him, her dark eyes still locked on his pale ones.

"How did you know what I was thinking when I woke up? How did you know what your father did to me? That he turned himself into you when he- he-" she looked down and away then, swallowing hard, fighting for composure. "I never told you about that, Draco, so _how did you know?_"

_Oh,_ Draco thought, _Bugger. Me._ "I- shit. He made a penseive, Hermione. I looked into it when I went back the manor to get Potter's cloak. I- I saw it there, in my old bedroom, and I realized right away what it must contain, and I... I wanted to understand what you'd been through, so I could support you better, but I never imagined..."

"You saw everything he did to me?" Her voice was barely audible.

Draco pressed his eyes closed briefly, wishing fervently. Wishing he hadn't seen it. Wishing it hadn't happened. Wishing he could go back in time and change this moment, change everything from their breakup on.

"Yes," he said finally, quietly, opening his eyes again, seeking her gaze- but she was still looking away from him- "I saw everything, love."

"Oh God," she whispered, hands coming up to shield her face entirely from his view, "oh God," and now her breath was hitching sharply, "I never... wanted... you... to...."

"Know?" he supplied gently. "You never wanted me to know?"

She shook her head, sucking in deep breaths in an apparent attempt to calm herself... an attempt that didn't seem to be working.

"Sweetheart, _why?_ You _must_ know by now that I will love you through anything? Why would you want to deal with this all on your own? Hermione?"

He reached out, intending to draw her into his arms again, but she shied away from him.

"Don't touch me!" she cried, almost frantically. Then, through breaths that were rapidly piling one on top of another, "please, Draco, I just... I n-need to be... alo-hone right now. Please... please leave."

Draco, stunned, didn't move- so Hermione did. She pushed herself up, using the wall for leverage, and then backed along it, away from him.

"Bookworm," Draco said, his tone wary, as he unfolded gracefully to his feet.

"Don't," Hermione half-sobbed. "Please, Draco, just- just go away, please. Please!" She had reached the door into the bathroom; she fled through it, shutting and locking it behind her, leaving Draco standing there in her room, in only the boxers he'd slept in, utterly shocked and wounded to the core.

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He didn't leave her room.

He paced back and forth for a while, went to her dresser, opened a drawer low down, pawed about for a moment and drew out a soft old tee-shirt of his that he remembered leaving there back when he had slept in this room quite frequently, pulled it on, ran a hand through his hair which was still staticky and stick-uppy from sleep, resumed pacing, stopped as he heard the shower go on in the adjacent bathroom, considered calling to Hermione through the door, decided against it, considered unlocking the door via _Alohomora_, remembered that he could not, that he would never be able to use that spell, or any other, ever again, fought the urge to howl out his rage and frustration and despair at the whole miserable situation, won- barely- and paced some more.

He paced restlessly around the perimeter of the room for a long, long time.

Far longer than it should have taken her to shower- and he ought to know, he had showered right along with her in that bathroom often enough. She was not the sort of ultra-feminine girl who regularly soaked for an hour; Hermione's practical nature extended to her bathing habits and though the showers they took together had often ended up being... pleasantly prolonged... he knew that normally, when left to her own devices, she'd be in and out in ten minutes. Just long enough to work up a nice lather, and run some shampoo and conditioner through her hair, that gorgeous bloody hair, nowhere near the... he paused and glanced at her bedside clock, an ornate antique that ran on cogs and magic... _forty minutes_ he'd been pacing?!?

He'd been pacing for forty minutes?

A bolt of cold fear shot through him. Something was wrong in there.

"Hermione!"

He rounded on the bathroom door- crossed to it- pounded on it. "_HERMIONE!_"

No answer.

"Hermione, Goddamn it, answer me! NOW!"

Still nothing.

Well, magic be damned. There were other ways of getting through that door. Backing up nearly to the bed, he steeled himself, then ran at it, ramming it with his shoulder, bursting through into the small room beyond.

"Hermione?" he asked, approaching the tub. When there was still no response, he yanked aside the curtain, then just stood where he was for a moment, aghast.

"Merlin," he breathed finally, grabbing for the nearest towel, "Hermione, what the hell are you _doing?_"

In point of fact, she was doing very little; only sitting on the floor of the tub, knees drawn tightly up to her chin, arms clasped about them and head resting on them, face hidden from view by dark curtains of sopping wet hair, directly under the spray of the shower. The truly alarming thing was that the water had long since run cold- and in a large and ancient building like Hogwarts, when the water went cold it went _cold_- it was like ice.

Draco turned the shower off, went down on one knee, pulled an unresisting and still silent Hermione out of the bathtub and into his lap, wrapped the large white towel he held around her, and began to rub vigorously. Hermione just let her head fall onto his shoulder. After a while he picked her up, still wrapped only in the oversized towel, carried her back into the bedroom, and settled in a large and cushy armchair- a favorite reading spot of hers- between the bed and the hearth. She remained utterly pliant in his arms, a life-sized rag-doll of the woman he loved.

Hermione- his Hermione- bright and vivacious and strong-willed and independent Hermione- was nowhere to be found.

Finally, he broke the silence. "Hermione," he said, his voice ragged with emotion, "what in God's name were you playing at in there? What are you trying to _do?_"

He thought he felt her lips move against his shoulder.

"What?"

She raised her head marginally, and repeated herself. "I said, please just leave me alone."

"LIKE HELL I WILL!" Draco exploded, finally at his breaking point. "Are you FUCKING MENTAL?!? What exactly is freezing yourself to death going to accomplish, Hermione? _WHAT?_"

She shoved herself away from him so suddenly and violently that he very nearly dropped her. "Maybe then I won't have to REMEMBER ANY MORE!" she shouted back at him, her eyes blazing with fury and despair.

"Oh. Right," Draco said, in a falsely calm voice, before fuming, "and _where exactly does that LEAVE ME?!"_ A voice inside of him was protesting that this was wrong, all wrong, a shouting match was the last thing either of them needed, for God's sake, call it off _now_- but he was beside himself, and unable to heed it. She had scared him half to death with that little shower stunt, and had cut him to the quick with her repeated requests that he leave, when all he wanted to do was help her, hold her, and he found himself reacting to these two emotions, fear and pain, as he always had- with anger and the desire, rational or not, to lash out; to hurt back. "You're not the only one with bloody problems right now, Hermione, so stop being so GODDAMN SELFISH!"

_WHAP_.

By the time Draco had raised a hand, uncomprehendingly, to his stinging cheek, Hermione had scrambled entirely off his lap and was standing in front of him, flushed, breathing hard, looking angrier than he thought he'd ever seen her- except, perhaps, for that day in the library when he'd intentionally humiliated her in public and broken her heart- and even that was too close to call with any certainty.

"I spent," she said in a voice that shook with rage, "three days... and two nights... being _raped_... so many times I lost count... by someone who looked like you, spoke like you, moved like you, _smelled_ like you- convinced all the while that the _real you HATED me_- would never come for me- would probably do no more than sneer and turn away if he- if _you_- could have seen what was happening to me. I wanted to die. I WANTED TO DIE! And then you sit there and tell me that I'm not the only one with bloody problems right now. I-" tears were streaking down her cheeks, fast and silent and apparently unnoticed by her. She swallowed hard. "I have nothing more to say to you, Draco Malfoy, except that I'm through asking you nicely. I want you OUT OF MY ROOM! _NOW!_"

Draco stood. His legs felt wooden, foreign. The voice inside of him was yelling now, that it still wasn't too late to set things right, if he would only go to her, pull her to him and _hold onto her_- that that was truly what she needed, what they both did.

Yet he couldn't bring himself to do it. He was wounded too deeply. "Fine," he said dully, and then again, "fine." He turned and crossed to the door, not stopping even when he heard a thud that could only be her body crumpling to the floor, followed by the sound of gut-wrenching, heart-wrenching sobs. "Fine," he muttered to himself through tightly clenched teeth, refusing the impulse to turn around; if he turned around he would go to her, and he was not gonna do that.

He stepped through the door and pulled it decisively shut behind him.

"Fine."


	27. Chapter 27: The Art of Making Up

(A/N: Look! Two weeks and another update, right on schedule! It's another shorty, but I'm finally starting to get my train of thought back on track regarding this story. I'm so happy! Now, it's time for a WARNING: this chapter contains SEXUAL CONTENT. When writing love scenes I try to focus a lot more on the emotions involved than on a graphic description of the actual physical act… but still, for those who prefer to avoid sex scenes altogether, consider yourselves warned!)

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He spent the day down at the building site, supervising the groundbreaking and the beginnings of the construction of his future home, thoroughly miserable all the while. This was something he and Hermione had been supposed to do together, but she was nowhere to be seen. Who knew where she was today, or what sort of state she was in? Worry gnawed at him, but though what he wanted more than anything was just to say _the hell with this_ and go find her, his pride refused to allow it.

He didn't see her at all that day, or that night either. He took dinner, along with Harry, down in the kitchens with the house elves- Hanni was as ecstatic to see him as Dobby was to see Harry. To Draco, Dobby was rather cool and cautious at first, but soon warmed up to him as Hanni had been singing his praises for weeks, and as Dobby now had an opportunity to see for himself that his former tyrant of a master was indeed a changed man.

Once Draco and Harry had finished eating, as they were preparing to leave, Dobby and Hanni, hand-in-hand, and amongst fits of giggling and playful prodding from the other elves, joyfully announced to the two boys that a romance had been blooming between them, and that they planned to wed in a month.

Draco, though he couldn't suppress a small shudder at the thought of house elf lovin' that crept, unbidden, into his mind at this announcement, was as genuinely pleased for Hanni as Harry was for Dobby. He took her aside into a quiet corner of the kitchen and asked her if she would perhaps like her freedom as a wedding gift. Hanni promptly burst into tears, but it didn't take long for Draco to discern that these were the good sort of tears, and that yes, she would like that very much indeed. Draco then promised to buy her abridal gown, and, by giving it to her on her wedding day, simultaneously set her free. Hanni was over the moon at the prospect of being quite possibly the first house elf ever to get married in a traditional white gown, rather than the standard extra-heavily-embroidered pillowcase female elves usually wore.

By the time Harry and Draco actually left the kitchen, it had been decided by the happy elf couple that Harry would be best man and Draco would give the bride away. Draco made a mental note to speak with the construction foreman then next day about an additional wedding gift, this one to be a surprise- there was a charming and private little corner of the property he and Hermione had bought, a short distance away from the site of the main house, near a small grove of trees and a raucous little brook, that would be perfect for a cottage. A cottage in which two freed house elves could raise a free family, away from prying eyes and any possible harassment or molestation.

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As they climbed the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, Draco filled Harry in on the fact that he and Hermione were arguing, though he skimped on details. Harry still didn't know all of what had happened to Hermione in the manor, and as far as Draco was concerned, he never would unless Hermione decided to tell him. He knew that it wasn't his place.

Not that Harry was completely clueless, of course. He knew that whatever it had been, had been atrocious. That much was patently obvious just from the condition she'd been in when they'd reached her. He was sure there'd been torture- he guessed there'd been rape. What he would never guess was the precise thing that had sparked the morning's blow-up; the unimaginable cruelty Lucius had displaying in taking on Draco's form for the worst of it.

In any event, by mentioning the argument Draco achieved what he had hoped for; Harry agreed to check in on Hermione before going to bed, and to report to Draco. Draco's fears could be assuaged without his actually having to make the first move toward reconciliation.

He paced in his room until he heard Harry's knock at the door.

"She seems all right," Harry said without preamble, "if a little… sad. Look, Malfoy, this argument, or whatever it is, is no good for either of you. I can see you're both hurting from it. And you know that Hermione is every bit as stubborn as you are. This thing could drag on for days. So why don't you just face the music and go talk to her yourself? It'll be better for both of you in the long run."

Draco pretended to give this some serious thought, but there was no way he was knocking on Hermione's door tonight. She'd made it clear she wanted him nowhere near her. And if that was what she wanted, fine, that was what she'd get.

Sad or not.

As soon as Harry left, he grabbed his broomstick- (it had recently been specially enchanted by Dumbledore; whereas most broomsticks relied on the magic inherent in their riders, this one was now endowed with a magical essence all its own, so that it could carry Draco regardless of whether _he_ had magic or not)- unlatched the window, and took off into the night. He flew for hours, fast and hard… and alone.

Utterly alone.

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This miserable, self-imposed isolation between the two of them continued for three entire days, with Harry acting as an increasingly frustrated and foul-tempered go-between. On the third night, Harry threw up his hands and refused to have anything more to do with either of them until they sorted matters out between themselves.

That night, when Draco returned from his solo flight- he'd been doing it every night since the argument- it was to find the door of his bedroom ajar and Hermione, looking heartachingly small, fragile and alone, curled up in the middle of his bed, asleep on top of the blankets. He closed the window quietly, leaned his broom against the wall, shut the door she'd left open, shrugged out of his flying things, and approached the bed.

"Bookworm," he whispered, sinking down on the edge of it and reaching out to smooth her rumpled hair, inwardly terrified of what might happen when she awoke. Would it be the same nightmarish scene all over again?

She blinked slowly, drowsily, and focused on him. "Hey," she whispered, and he could tell that she was seeing him- really seeing him.

He smiled slowly. "What're you doing here, love?"

"I don't wanna fight anymore. I don't wanna sleep alone anymore. I'm sorry, Draco-"

"Shh," he cut her off. "S'alright. I'm sorry too. C'mere." He gathered her into his arms. "I love you so much, bookworm," he murmured, stroking her hair, "_so_ much more than you'll ever know."

Hermione seemed so sleepy she could barely keep her eyes open. She dropped her head to his shoulder and yawned hugely. "I took some dreamless sleep potion," she murmured, snuggling against him, feeling, to Draco, like a lost part of himself finally returned home. "So I should be okay… when I wake up…."

And just like that, she was gone, drifted off into a deep and peaceful slumber, still in a half-sitting position, leaning heavily against him.

Draco shifted her gently off himself and down onto the bed, pulled back the covers, eased both himself and Hermione under them, and curled himself around her small, warm body. For the first time in three days, he slept well too.

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This time, it was Draco's turn to awaken disoriented and confused- though in his case, it was not an unpleasant sensation, seeing as it was liberally mixed with large doses of arousal. It was the cause of the arousal that confused him; Hermione was already awake and was- doing _things_- to him with her hand.

He dragged in a deep, hitching breath as his entire body shuddered involuntarily with pleasure. It had been a long time since he'd felt that warm little hand wrapped firmly around… well, yeah. She was lying halfway on top of him and he couldn't see her face, but he felt her smile against his bare chest as she did something that wrenched a groan from his throat.

"Hermione," he managed at length, his voice hoarse and shaky, "are you sure you want this, love?" It took all of his willpower to ask the question, even as his body responded to her ministrations, standing rigidly at attention.

She looked up at him then, a slanting band of morning sunlight falling across her face and hair, illuminating her. Her hair was sleep-tousled and her eyes held only love and a hint of mischief- no fear, no pain, as far as he could see. He thought she was the most beautiful thing on earth. Then she buried her face in his stomach to stifle a yawn before moving her lips lower.

"I want this, Draco," she murmured, her lips moving against a _very_ sensitive part of his anatomy, which she'd freed easily from his boxer shorts. "I want it now, with the sun shining in, so I can see you clearly all the while. I want _you_."

"Nnmph," Draco choked out, strangling a moan. Merlin, was he still dreaming? He didn't think so….

But he wondered just the same as Hermione began tracing patterns with her tongue- it felt so damn _good_.

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It was almost like their first time, in that it took them a long, long while to reach the point where they were both ready to dispense with the foreplay and actually make love. Draco was nearly superhuman in his resolve to take things slow. When the moment finally came, he rolled onto his back, pulling Hermione over so that she was on top, straddling him.

"You're calling… all the shots, love," he panted. "S'up to you… how fast and how far we go. You can stop… any time. All right?"

She bent close over him, planting one hand on each side of his head- they sank into his down pillow, right up to the wrists. Their noses bumped together as she whispered, "I love you, Draco Malfoy. I trust you. Show me it can be good. It _can_ be good, right?"

Draco grinned- she was repeating what she'd said to him the first night she'd given herself to him. "Hell _yeah_, it can be good," he said raggedly. He plunged a hand into her thick hair and grasped the back of her neck, pulling her down into a kiss. At the same time, she shifted her body- rising up slightly, and when she came back down-

Merlin… oh Merlin, _so good_-

When she came back down, settling herself low on his hips, it was with his entire length buried inside her.

She gave a soft cry into his mouth, then wrenched her lips away from his, leaving him to draw in a sharp breath between suddenly clenched teeth, and burrowed her face into the hollow where his neck met his shoulder. She stayed like that for a long moment, her body taut, trembling and perfectly still, her breaths bursting quick and erratic on his throat, her hands tightly clenched in his pillow, on either side of his head. Her every muscle seemed to be clenched tight and God Almighty, she felt so good, it was all he could do to keep from grabbing her hips, rolling her onto her back and…

No. He had told her she was calling the shots, and that was how it was going to be. If she decided to call the whole thing off right now, then so be it. He withdrew the hand that had been buried in her hair and began rubbing her back in light, soothing circles, while his other arm snaked around her waist, pressing her down even tighter against him

'Hey," he managed, after swallowing thickly, "you wanna stop, bookworm? Just say the word."

She raised her head then, only marginally, but enough to meet his eyes, and he saw that hers were swimming with tears, but she wasn't allowing them to spill over. "It's okay," she said, her words choppy as a result of her fast, frantic breathing- she hardly seemed able to suck in enough air- "I'm just… I need…" She wetted her lips with her tongue, the completely unconscious eroticism of that simple little act nearly pushing Draco over the edge. "I need you… to talk to me… Draco. Talk to me… please."

He knew immediately what she was asking for. Gentle words, loving words, the sort that would reassure her throughout that he was who he was- the person who loved her more than anything else on earth- more than his own life, more than his own soul.

So he lifted both hands to her face, framing it, and began to speak as she began to move.

He told her all the things he could think of that he loved about her (the same things that had flashed through his mind when she'd been dead on the school's front steps and he'd thought her lost forever). The way her hair looked in the morning, the scent of her shampoo, the furrow she got in her forehead while reading, a thousand things that had each been like a dagger in him when he'd thought she was gone.

Not to mention the way she looked- and felt- _now_… almost too bloody good to be real. In the end, nearly all coherency fled him and it all came down to "I love you, I love you, _God_, how I love you," as his hands finally found their way down to grasp her hips and help her along, and far from minding, she responded by gasping out her release, tightening around him until he thought he couldn't bear it anymore, and went tumbling after her over the brink, groaning aloud in spite of himself.


	28. Chapter 28: Stress Induced Magic

(A/N: Disturbing flashback to Hermione's captivity. Rape- yucky. You've been warned.)

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The afterglow lasted them both the rest of that day- they were still euphoric when they met up with a very relieved Harry for dinner that night, all three of them eating in the kitchens together this time, so that Dobby and Hanni could fuss over Hermione and tell her of their wedding plans in person. She'd gotten the low-down from Harry already, but was very good at putting on a pretense of surprised delight- and after all, the delight, at least, was entirely genuine.

Over the course of the next few days, taking most breakfasts and dinners with the elves (lunches were usually had in Hogsmeade Village, either at the Three Broomsticks where the young engaged couple were quickly becoming regarded as "regulars", or picnicking at the construction site), Draco and Hermione even convinced them to push back the date of their nuptials by a month, so that the wedding could be held on the grounds of the new Malfoy home, the very first day it was complete. It would be a joyous occasion that was half housewarming party and half wedding celebration. Draco had hired an additional team of builders to ensure that construction was completed on time, and to take responsibility for the cottage that was now being erected in secret, on that secluded little corner of their land. Hermione had been beyond delighted when he had asked her opinion, and was nearly as enthusiastic about selecting furniture and décor for the cottage as for the main house. The time passed quickly with so many things to plan for; the completion of their home, Dobby and Hanni's wedding, which they'd be hosting, their own wedding which would follow in a few months' time.

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It seemed like no more than a few days had passed, and there they were, out in the newly landscaped garden overlooking Hogwarts Lake, toasting the newlywed elves along with most of the Hogwarts faculty and a select few friends, who could be counted upon to be as supportive of Hanni and Dobby as Draco and Hermione were themselves. Hanni had all of a bride's radiance and, though very homely by human standards, was obviously completely captivating to her new husband. The party lingered on through the evening with dinner and dancing, cake and champagne, and culminated in a lantern-lit procession to the cottage, led by Draco and Hermione. The newlyweds, at the sight of this stupendous surprise wedding gift, promptly went absolutely berserk with amazed gratitude, racing from one room to the next, marveling at the elf-sized furnishings and accessories, the closets (his and hers) and drawers overflowing with miniature clothing, and the fully stocked and furnished nursery, ready and waiting, which caused Hanni to blush to the tips of her oversized ears.

Hermione's parents, who attended the event, were floored by the newly completed house, and put considerably more at ease by witnessing the easy interaction that now existed between their daughter and her intended, as they played gracious hosts to their thirty or so guests, snatching time away every so often to join the candlelit dancing down at one end of the rose garden, beneath a canopy of lavishly flowering vines. When Mr. and Mrs. Granger left that night it was with a markedly better impression of their son-in-law-to-be than they'd taken away with them from the commencement ceremony.

As for Draco and Hermione, they fell into bed exhausted once the last of their guests had left, the bed being the only piece of furniture they had bothered situating in its rightful place on their first day in their new home- most of which had been spent outdoors, of course, at the wedding. The rest of their furniture, that which had arrived, at any rate- there were still several pieces on order that had yet to be delivered- was scattered about haphazardly; most, but not all, of the items in or at least near their appointed rooms. Boxes littered the floors of every room as well. This was all work for tomorrow; they'd be indoors setting up house while a hired- and generously paid- team of house elves would be out in the garden, cleaning away all signs of the event that had so recently transpired there.

00000

The next morning they slept late, awakened only when a wide band of sunlight fell across the bed- the windows did not yet have curtains up. They made love with decadent abandon as the sun shone in, not caring a whit for the house elves that were scurrying hither and thither outside- they weren't tall enough to see over the windowsill!- then rose to try out their new bathing facilities, which easily rivaled the spacious prefects' bathroom at Hogwarts.

The rest of the day was spent in unpacking boxes and crates, moving furniture around through a mix of Hermione's magic and Draco's good old fashioned manly strength, and debating the permanent placements for this floor lamp or that chaise lounge. The day passed too quickly, the only breaks being for meals and when Hermione, with considerable excitement, took delivery of a gigantic book she had ordered from Diagon Alley and had been awaiting eagerly for some time. When they finally sought their bed that night, nearly stumbling from fatigue, their muscles warm and loose from a day's worth of heavy lifting, it was with less than half of their household organizing done, yet with a feeling of immense satisfaction and well-being in their hearts.

It was a feeling that was to vanish all too soon.

00000

It was far and away the worst nightmare Draco had ever had.

He was witnessing a scene straight out of his father's penseive; one of the many vicious rape sessions that had taken place over the three days of Hermione's captivity, Lucius- (sick- fucking- bastard- Draco thought helplessly)- having of course taken on Draco's form, so it was like watching himself brutalizing the girl he loved more than his very soul.

He was struggling frantically to reach them, to put an end to this horror, to snap his father's neck with his own bare hands- but it was as if there were invisible bonds restraining him; just as with the pensieve itself, he could do nothing to interfere; only watch, knowing that this had happened and could not be altered, and weep with frustrated rage.

Hermione had tried desperately to escape- even toward night of the second day, when this scene had actually taken place, the fight had not left her entirely- but she'd been sick and weak, and had never had a chance. Her captor had thrown her face-down on the bed and taken her that way, pushing her face hard into the mattress until she had nearly passed out, then, just as he had climaxed, winding a hand through her thick hair and yanking her head back, wrenching a hoarse, sobbing cry of agony from her throat.

Draco watched as her hands had wound helplessly in the bedclothes, and a long, shuddering moment later, Lucius had collapsed on top of her, biting her hard on the shoulder as he'd waited for his breath to return to normal- all this managed to elicit from her, nearly unconscious by now, was a low, despairing moan. As he had pushed himself off the bed, the polyjuice potion had lost its effect, and so Lucius had appeared himself again as he had walked around the bed on which Hermione now lay like a discarded rag doll and, reaching down, pulled her head up by the hair one more time.

"Smartest witch of your age," he had sneered, "where is all your book-learning now, hmm? Let me tell you something, mudblood; THIS is what you were made for." And releasing her, he had stalked through the door, throwing one last taunt- "filthy little whore"- back at her before slamming it shut behind him.

Left on her own now, Hermione had slowly, very slowly, curled up into a tight ball on the bed, her head cushioned on one arm, the other thrown over her face in what appeared to be a futile effort at self-protection. She was shaking violently- _shock,_ Draco thought, where he now slumped in defeated misery against his invisible bonds; _she's going into deep shock_- and her body was heaving every now and then- whether in an attempt to retch or to sob he couldn't tell, but either way the attempt was futile- there appeared to be neither tears nor bile left in her; no fluid at all save for that with which his father had just injected her.

Vile. Disgusting.

He felt sick himself, at the thought.

And then he heard her speak his name.

"Draco," she had whispered, "Draco, where are you… please help me, please… don't… let him hurt me anymore… oh God… I can't take anymore… Draco… please?"

He knew it was useless, but he tried to shout to her anyway, to tell her he was coming and to hold on, just hold on, love, don't give up- but of course she didn't hear him. She'd been drifting into darkness and just before unconsciousness had claimed her, he heard her whisper aloud again; "God, please don't let me wake up… I don't… wanna… wake…"

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"HERMIONE!!!" He shouted, sitting straight up in bed, his pajamas, soaked with perspiration, sticking to his body, his hair plastered to his forehead, shaking almost as violently as she had been doing in the dream.

Not dream, memory; he remembered seeing that exact scene in the pensieve, which meant that it had actually happened- dear God, it had actually HAPPENED that way.

He had to force back a wave of nausea at the thought. It took him a long, long moment of sitting there, breathing hard, before he even registered his surroundings enough to notice that Hermione was missing from the bed.

A bolt of fear like ice shot through him.

"Hermione?" His voice was ragged with the vestiges of the dream. He kicked off the topsheet- all that had been covering him- and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Hermione?"

No answer.

His heart now pounding in his chest like a drum, he stood. Something was wrong. He knew it as clearly as he had known it the night his father had taken her. Something was very definitely wrong here.

"Hermione, damn it, answer me." His voice was little more than a whisper. Fear had constricted his throat.

He took a few stumbling steps before stopping abruptly, having barked his shin hard on a box set in the middle of the floor. In his distraught and sleep-muddled state, he had forgotten that was no longer in his Head Boy room at Hogwarts.

"Shit!" he ground out, reaching down to rub his injured leg. Of all the ways to be awakened on only his second night in his new home. "HERMIONE!"

Still no answer.

He stayed where he was for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Then, slowly, he made his way out of the bedroom and down the hallway of the house's "nighttime wing", pausing at every doorway to look in, squinting against the darkness, searching for any sign of fiancée before moving on.

He had meant what he'd said when he had told Ron that any house he bought in the future would not have stairs. The new Malfoy residence was indeed a single-storey home, laid out in a rough L-shape. There was the nighttime wing, as he and Hermione had dubbed it, which contained four bedrooms and two bathrooms, not including the large master suite, which sat at the very end of the hall, and then there was the daytime wing, which consisted of the entryway, living room, dining room, kitchen, game room, yet another bathroom, and- of course- the library.

It was in the library- all the way at the opposite end of the house from the master bedroom, that he found her.

She was lying full-length on the floor, stretched out on the hearth rug in front of a fireplace that had long since gone dark and cold, asleep with her head cushioned on the pages of a gigantic book which he recognized even from the doorway and even in the dark, simply by virtue of the fact that he knew it was, without question, the largest book in the house at the moment. It was the one that had arrived just that day by owl post; it had taken four large birds to transport it. He had commented on its size, refusing to remark upon its subject, which was, predictably, a comprehensive study of the loss of magic in adult witches and wizards; its causes and possible remedies. It was the kind of all-encompassing reference book she had been searching for at Hogwarts to no avail.

He should have been relieved to find her so. Apparently unable to sleep, even after their busy day, she had crept from bed for a late night session with this new book, the arrival of which she had been awaiting with such anticipation. She had stretched out with it in front of the fire, read until she had fallen asleep, the fire had gone out, and here she was. Nothing had happened to her; there was no cause for alarm.

So why did he still have that strong and distinct feeling that something was not right?

He realized why in the next moment. She had been lying on her stomach, her arms folded over the pages of the book and her head laid upon them, but now she tossed over onto her back- it was an abrupt, restless motion; the motion of someone engaged in a nightmare, and was accompanied by a whimpering sound deep in her throat. When her face was revealed to him, he saw three things at once; first, that several tendrils of her dark hair were stuck to her forehead and neck with perspiration- second, that her brows were knit in obvious distress- and third, that there were tear-tracks on her cheeks; she was crying in her sleep.

He knew then, without knowing how he knew, but beyond the shadow of a doubt, that she was wrapped in the same nightmare he himself had just awakened from… and God, he thought, if it had been bad for him, what must it be like for her?

"Hermione," he murmured, starting toward her. "Oh, sweetheart."

But nothing could have prepared him for what happened when he reached her.

Kneeling beside her, he bent down and took her shoulders in his hands. "Hermione," he said, more loudly this time, and gave her a little shake. That was when all hell broke loose.

"NOO!" she screamed, her eyes flying open; she raised both hands to his chest and shoved him away with a strength born of adrenaline, and by the time he had recovered himself, she had scooted backward on her bottom, to a distance of several feet.

"Neh… ver… ah… gain," she gasped out, her eyes huge and wild, her body wracked as if by sobs, though her eyes were dry. "Never again. Get away from me… get AWAY!"

"Hermione." Draco forced himself to keep his voice calm. "Hermione, it's me. You're safe. You're home. It's just a dream, you need to wake up. It's me, Draco. I love you. Please wake up."

"_Don't lie to me!_" she screamed then. "Don't… you… dare! You're not Draco, he wouldn't say that, he never has! He doesn't love me, he isn't coming, I'm going to _die_ here!"

Each word was like a knife in Draco's heart. God, that she had actually thought this… could he ever, in all his life, make it up to her?

But, as it turned out, he had a more pressing problem to deal with at the moment- Hermione, now well out of his grasp, suddenly cried, "_Accio!"_ and her wand flew to her from where she'd left it lying on a low side table before drifting off to sleep on the pages of her book.

She grabbed it both-handed and leveled it at him, and her hands were shaking slightly, but her aim was true; it was trained directly on his heart. "Even if I do die here," she said, "_you're_ never going to touch me again. Never!" Her eyed narrowed, now blazing with rage and hate and agony, and Draco had just a split second, his own eyes widening hugely, to realize _holy shit, she's going to KILL me, she's really gonna kill me in her sleep and dear God, what will that do to her when she WAKES UP?!?_ before she started to form the word "Av-" and he acted without pause for rational thought; the only idea that flitted through his mind in that instant was that she would stop if she could see him, really _see_ him for who he was- that would snap her out of it, and so, with a burst of panicked adrenaline, not remembering in that split second that he was now supposedly a squib, he shouted "_LUMOS!_"

And it worked.

Oh, how it worked.

The darkened fireplace, and every wall sconce and lamp in the room, exploded into light with nearly deafening popping sounds and a ferocious energy that lit the room as brilliantly as if it were a professional Quidditch Pitch at night- in other words, more brightly than the brightest daylight.

Draco, already on his knees, doubled over with a hoarse shout, clutching at his temples; when the room had exploded with light, his head had exploded with pain. Gritting his teeth, he slammed his eyes shut against the hurtful glare that now permeated every corner of the library. "Ngh!" he grunted with the effort not to cry out again, folding himself right in half, until in the next instant he felt Hermione's hands, small yet insistent, pulling him up to face her, her voice muzzy with sleep, frightened, confused.

"Draco! Draco, what's wrong? How are you hurt, did you make this light, what's going _on?_"

He forced his eyes open to look at her, realizing dimly, belatedly, _she didn't kill me, I'm still alive_- her face was blurry; he blinked and she doubled, tripled- he realized then that there were tears streaming from his eyes, in silent protest of the screaming pain in his head.

"Head… hurts!" he gasped out. "Just… hold onto me… please!" And wrapping his arms around her, he yanked her close to him and buried his face in her chest.

A long time passed, as the grinding, pounding, stabbing pain in his head gradually subsided, Hermione cradling him and stroking her fingers soothingly through his hair. Finally, after what seemed a small eternity, he raised his head enough to face her, though his teeth were still gritted and the pain, although bearable now, was still there, lurking; waiting, he felt, to strike.

"Draco," Hermione whispered, taking his face in both her hands, "what happened? _Did_ you make this light? You did, didn't you?"

"You were dreaming again," he said hoarsely, "you didn't believe it was me, I had to make you see, I _had_ to- and- God- it's too damn bright in here, it's hurting my eyes."

"Then make it dark again," Hermione said.

"You know I can't bloody well do that," he ground out.

"I think you can. I think you made this light, and I think you can unmake it. Do it, Draco."

"I can't!" he cried hoarsely, almost frantically, pressing the palms of both hands hard against his temples. Merlin, the _pain_…

"Draco," Hermione said calmly, reasonably, insistently, "Draco, you have to try this. We have to know."

Draco glared at her for a moment. Though he would never admit it to her, he was terrified- of what it would mean should he speak the spell and nothing happened. He didn't think he could stand having his hopes raised this way- and they _were_ raised, despite the pain in his head- and then having them dashed again.

Hermione, however, seemed unfazed by the hostile expression he was directing her way. "Say it, love," she whispered.

Draco took a deep breath, steeling himself, then said, still through gritted teeth, "_Nox_."

The lights extinguished immediately, but another bolt of pain went surging through Draco's head, knocking him backward this time, to sprawl flat on the rug, both hands pressed over his eyes, groaning. The room, pitch black, was beginning to spin.

"Draco? Draco!" He knew that Hermione was kneeling over him, her face just inches from his, but he could barely hear her. The headache had a sound to it now; a pulsing, pounding, ringing roar. He tried to say her name but couldn't. Attempting to speak caused an unbearable crescendo of pain. He thought he heard her say she was going to get help, then the room spun faster and faster until it tipped off at a mad angle and Draco went slipping over the edge of consciousness and was gone.


	29. Chapter 29: Rainforest

Draco groaned hoarsely, fighting his way slowly back to consciousness. It felt like swimming up through a noxious, thick substance- it was black at first, then varying shades of grey passing from darker to lighter, and then, finally-

"Ow," he whispered, raising a hand slowly to his throbbing forehead; he found a cool, damp rag resting across it. "Mmph," he muttered in protest, struggling up onto his elbows and wrenching his eyes open, only to slam them shut again.

He was still in the library, though he'd been lifted onto the sofa, and the only light in the room was the flickering orange glow from the fireplace, which had been stoked back to life- but even that seemed to Draco like far too much light at the moment. He turned his head sharply, burying his face in the sofa-back.

"Draco."

He started at the sound of his name, but did not remove his face from the sofa cushion, even as surprised as he was- for it was not Hermione who had spoken. Instead he mumbled, "Severus… s'bright."

He heard some movement behind him, then Snape spoke again.

"I've banked the fire a bit, Draco. Try again."

He pried one eye open, then the other, grimacing as he did so. The room still seemed too bright for comfort, though he knew rationally that under any other circumstances he would have considered it far too dim to be appropriate for anything save perhaps lovemaking. Snorting softly at the thought, he swung his legs over the side of the couch, planting his feet on the floor and his elbows on his knees, and dropping his face forward into his hands. The cool rag fell from his forehead to land on the floor between his bare feet with a wet plop.

He felt the sofa cushions shift as Snape sat beside him.

"Where's Hermione?" he asked, his voice croaky and too loud in his own ears.

"Just over there," Snape said. Draco raised his head for a moment and saw her across the room, asleep sideways on a large armchair- her legs hooked over one of the upholstered arms, her head resting where the other arm met the chair's back. Her face, pale, surrounded by the rumpled glory of all her dark hair, was turned toward him; she looked peaceful now, her lips slightly parted in sleep, but the flickering firelight revealed silvery tear tracks on her cheeks.

Draco dropped his head into his hands again. "She called you," he said, muffled.

"Yes," Snape replied. "She was a degree or two past hysterical. She said your powers had come back, and stronger than ever- but that they nearly killed you. What happened, Draco?"

"She was having a nightmare. _She_ nearly killed me. She thought I…" he shook his head, his hands clenching in his pale hair. "She thought I was my father," he choked out. "She had me at wandpoint, she was- her _eyes_- she wasn't really there, I could tell. She was trapped in the dream. She really was about to kill me, Severus."

He paused, dragging in a deep, unsteady breath, and felt his mentor's hand come to rest on his back. "All I could think of," he continued at length, "was that I had to make her see it was _me_- I only had an instant in which to act, I didn't have time to stop and consider that my magic was gone, I just did the first thing that came into my head. I cast _Lumos_. And it worked, Severus- but it knocked me on my arse, let me tell you. My head- it felt like it exploded. Shit, it still feels that way. But Hermione convinced me to try _Nox_- and that knocked me right the hell out."

He raised his head then, and Snape could see fear battling with hope in his eyes. "What if my magic is back, but I can never use it again because of…" he waved a hand vaguely- "all this? What if I can never use it again for fear of being knocked flat? Knowing it was there- that would be worse that being a Squib, I think."

"You're getting way ahead of yourself," Snape said calmly. "This was the first time you've used magic in months. And it's entirely possible that it has been building up inside of you for all this time, just somehow inaccessible to you until a moment of great peril and need wrenched it to the surface. It was bound to have a kick to it, Draco."

"Yeah?" Draco asked, his uncertainty making him seem much younger than he was- not at all the same person who had single-handedly killed over a dozen former Death Eaters in the not-so-distant past.

"That is my theory at the moment, yes," Snape replied, "and this book I've just been looking through-" he indicated Hermione's enormous new book, lying open where the potions master had apparently been studying it while waiting for Draco to wake up- "seems to corroborate it. I have more reading to do, though, and you need your rest. Drink this and then take Miss Granger to bed. I'll just stay right here with the book, if you don't mind; your library really is quite comfortable."

So saying, he held out a vial of liquid, which Draco took after a moment's hesitation, looking wary. "What is it?" he asked, turning the vial in the dim light of the fire, examining its contents.

"Simple headache remedy," Snape said. "My, aren't we suspicious?" his voice was tinged with dry humor. "You can always pass on it, Draco, if you _like_ feeling as if the Knight Bus just ran over your head."

Without another word, Draco uncorked the miniature bottle with his teeth and downed the potion in one swallow. Almost immediately, the room stopped looking so painfully, unnaturally bright. He got to his feet- and breathed a sigh of relief when this simple action did _not_ cause his head to swim dizzily.

"Will you need my assistance with Miss Granger?" Snape asked.

"I think we'll manage, thanks," Draco said with a small smile. "Make yourself comfortable. If you get tired, the couch folds out into a bed. Some Muggle thing Hermione insisted upon. I'll have Hanni look in on you in the morning."

"I thought your elf was free?" Snape inquired.

"Oh, she is, but you know house elves- they would implode if they had nothing to do. Dobby's kept his job up at Hogwarts, but we've hired Hanni on to be our 'household manager'. She's so ridiculously proud of the title that Hermione says she's going to order her some business cards that she can pass out." He shook his head at this notion, but then added, "there's nothing I wouldn't do for that elf, Severus. Nothing. She saved Hermione's life. And since Hermione _is_ my life, she saved mine as well."

He stood for a moment lost in thought, then shook his head as if to clear it and crossed to where Hermione lay curled in her chair. Scooping her effortlessly into his arms, he turned and headed for the door. "Good night, Severus," he said quietly, "and- thanks for always coming when I need you."

Snape however, once left on his own, found that he was still thinking about Hanni the house elf, and how her courage and integrity had indeed been responsible for saving Hermione's life. Saving Draco's life.

"Well, then," he murmured aloud before turning back to the open book, "I suppose she saved mine too."

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Draco's magic, it transpired, was back indeed.

Over the next few weeks, he spent every free moment he had with Snape, learning to re-cultivate his magical abilities, pretty much from the ground up. When Hogwarts classes began again and Snape was no longer free during the day, Draco altered his sleep-wake cycle so that he could be with his mentor from six in the evening until two in the morning. (Merlin only knew how Snape coped with it all.) It was difficult and taxing work, and Hermione worried as he returned home every night seeming more exhausted than the last… until the night when, long after Draco should have been home, just as she was throwing on a robe and preparing to go in search of him, she answered a knock at the door to find Snape on the stoop, with Draco unconscious in his arms.

Once the rush of complete panic subsided, Hermione found herself torn between two fundamentals of her nature; her deeply ingrained respect for her elders, and her strong inclination to speak her mind, no-holds-barred. In the end, it was her inclination to speak her mind that won. After all, Draco's health was at stake here. And there were few things in the world that could change bookish little Hermione Granger into a _Force-To-Be-Reckoned-With_ like a threat to her Draco's well-being.

So Snape certainly got a very loud and vehement earful as he carried Draco down the long hallway to the master bedroom and laid him carefully on the bed. The stern and much-feared potions master looked unusually chagrined as the petite girl who had been his student until just a few weeks ago continued to lecture him in a voice that was very near to shouting-

"-think for _one minute_, professor, that I'd rather have a dead wizard than a live squib for a fiancé, then let me tell you, you've another think coming! Draco is too desperate to recover his magic to know when to stop, he depends on _you_ to set those limits for him- he looks up to you, and you've let him down! And you'd better believe me when I say that he's not-"

"Miss Granger."

"-going to spend even _one more_-"

"Miss Granger."

"night making himself _sick_ while-"

"_Miss Granger!_"

Hermione stopped abruptly mid-tirade, flushed with anger, hands planted firmly on her hips, clearly nowhere near done speaking her mind. Her expression- one eyebrow arched challengingly- clearly said, _hurry up and say what you need to say, so that I can get on with tearing you a new one_. Snape sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"Draco is done," he said, tiredly. "He doesn't _need_ anymore practice; he's-" Snape shook his head slightly- "frankly, I've never seen anything like it. When his magic returned, it returned tenfold. _That's_ why it was so painful to him at first- without the proper controls in place, it nearly ripped right through him. In terms of sheer, raw power, he's easily the strongest wizard alive today. Perhaps the strongest that's ever lived. Do you recall, Miss Granger, on the night of Draco's Resorting, Dumbledore telling him that the handful of witches and wizards who have been Resorted through the ages tended to prove themselves… very, very special? Went on to do great things- make history? I have a feeling that such greatness is in store for Draco. Without question, Draco is-" he paused, groping for words- "well, Miss Granger, he is something remarkable to behold, now that he is in full control again. But enough talk." He glanced at the bedside clock, which showed the time to be nearly four in the morning. "When your fiancé awakens, tell him that I do not want to see him up at the school for any reason other than a social visit-" his lips twisted into a small smile- "and even then, not for at least a week. You are correct; he does need to rest and recuperate."

He made for the door, but paused a moment to lay a hand on Hermione's shoulder- she looked so small and so pale, standing there shell-shocked in her blue robe, her night-wild hair tumbling down her back and dark little smudges of worry and fatigue beneath her eyes. "It's all right, M- Hermione," he said quietly. "It's really all right. It was his love for you that wrought this change in Draco, and so as far as I am concerned, it can only be for the good. Get some rest as well, and when he wakes, make him give you a little demonstration."

Hermione tried to smile. "Sure," she said, in a cracked, tired voice, "I'll have him conjure me up some flowers straight away."

Snape gave his head a half-shake. "Flowers? Hermione, he could conjure you a rainforest."


	30. Chapter 30: Crowned With Glory & Honor

It was shortly past noon on Draco and Hermione's wedding day; a day that had dawned beautiful and clear, and was only growing, if possible, ever more so with each passing hour.

The Granger-Malfoy household was a flurry of activity and preparations; Draco and Hermione's father dressing in the library while Mrs. Granger attended the bride in the master bedroom. Hermione's parents had spent the previous night at their daughter and son-in-law-to-be's home, the four of them sitting up late around the table as Hermione and her mother alternately pored over Muggle magazines of bridal hairstyles and finalized the seating charts for the reception. Draco and Mr. Granger had passed the time by genially sharing an excellent bottle of aged firewhisky (Hermione had smiled to herself, wondering how her parents would react if they knew just what that bottle was worth- converted into pounds, it had roughly the same value as their _house_), and Hermione, in between semi-heated debates with her mother over this upsweep or that French braid (_no, mum, Draco prefers my hair at least partially down! And this one would wreak havoc with the crowns_...) gave her fiancé a thorough lesson in Muggle wedding traditions and superstitions- the something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue requirement, for one thing- and the fact that they were absolutely forbidden from seeing one another from the time they woke up in the morning until Draco saw her sweeping up the aisle on her father's arm.

This, in particular, had not sat well with the groom-to-be at all, resulting in protestations- "what do you mean I can't see you until the ceremony? It's a sunset wedding, for Merlin's sake! How am I supposed to go an entire day without you?"- that were thoroughly useless insofar as getting Hermione to relent on the no-prewedding-contact rule, but on the other hand, managed to score him copious points with his future in-laws.

They had all retired to bed just shy of midnight- again, at Hermione's insistence; midnight marked the official beginning of their wedding day, after all, and therefore the start of their pre-ceremony separation. Her mother had stayed in the master bedroom, sharing the bed with Hermione, while Draco had been compelled to bunk down on the Muggle fold-out couch in the library in the company of Frank "call me dad" Granger, who snored more powerfully than Crabbe and Goyle put together, in all the years they'd shared Draco's dorm. Fortunately for Draco, the fact that the ceremony was slated for so late in the day meant that, once he'd finally attained sleep, he'd at least had the promise of a much-needed lie-in to look forward to.

Now, however, that lunch was over, things were kicking into high gear- it would soon be time to proceed to the wedding site and get some of the photographs underway- and Draco's agitation at being denied access to Hermione was mounting. He was pretending to listen as Hermione's father explained to him the ins and outs of a Muggle coat and tails, which Draco would be wearing beneath his dress robes to reveal at the reception as a surprise for Hermione- but in reality, all of his thoughts were directed toward the other end of the house, and his bride.

In the end, his father-in-law just about had to dress him.

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In the guest rooms, two other men were dressing as well; Severus Snape and Harry Potter. They were to constitute the entirety of the wedding party; Snape standing up for Draco, and Harry for Hermione. They'd arrived in time for lunch, garment bags in tow, and after eating with Frank Granger and Draco- the women were nowhere in sight- had been shown by Hanni to two rooms directly across the hall from one another.

Now, within his assigned room, Harry blew on his glasses and wiped them on his sleeve, then slid them back into place and scrutinized himself in the mirror. He adjusted the flower in his lapel, and ran a hand through his messy black hair- even on this of all days, it refused to lie flat- then bowed his head and began to wrestle with his cravat. The mirror had nothing to say about any of this- like many of the accent pieces in Hermione and Draco's home, it was of Muggle origin.

So Harry's heart just about stopped when a voice at his elbow, all good-natured irritation, said, "bloody nightmares these things are, eh mate?"

Harry jerked his head up, seeking the source of the voice- green eyes widening as he found it in the mirror's reflection. Standing beside him, also in formal attire, also tugging at his tie in good-humored frustration- now meeting his eyes in the glass and throwing a wink and a grin his way, was-

"Ron." Harry exhaled the name, completely unable, under the circumstances, to get his voice to work.

Then his knees buckled and he sat down hard on the floor.

"Oi! Harry!" Ron dropped into a sitting position as well, folding his long legs Indian-style and leaning forward over them, his intent blue gaze, now tinged with concern, fixed on his best friend. "Get a grip, mate. You look as if you've seen a ghost!"

"Ron," Harry breathed again in complete shock, unable to come up with anything else to say. Then, a moment later, managed to add, "bloody hell."

"Yeah," Ron said with a small, lopsided smile, "I've missed you too, mate."

Harry opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again. "I-" he croaked. Nothing else. A sudden tear streaked down his face, unnoticed by him. He tried again, this time actually managing to string three words together- a record so far. "Ron- my fault."

Ron looked almost solid sitting there- not quite, but _almost_… and Harry could _almost_ feel the pressure when Ron reached out both-handed and gripped him by the shoulders. "Don't do that, Harry," the redhead said severely. "Don't do that to yourself. You're not helping anyone; you _or_ me. It was _not your fault_, are you hearing me? It was a decision I made, and I would make it again- because I know that if our roles had been reversed, you'd have done the same bloody thing. Picture yourself running up and finding me glued to the spot, about to be _Avada_'d. Would you just have stood there and watched it happen? _Would_ you?"

Harry's response was a simple, barely audible, "no."

"_No!_" Ron said, a lot more forcefully, "of course you wouldn't. So why in Merlin's name would you expect _me_ to? Harry, this has to stop. You can't go on beating yourself up for a decision _I made_, and that I stand by. You need to move past this. All right?" He went through the motion of giving Harry a brisk little shake- Harry could swear he almost felt that too. "I said, _all right?_"

Harry's eyes were now both leaking steadily- he reached up and wiped the back of his hand across first one and then the other- but then he nodded. Because it _was_ all right. It was. He had never thought it would be all right, ever again- if he lived to be a hundred, he'd never thought he'd live a day without stumbling beneath the suffocating mantle of grief and guilt he'd carried around since Ron's death, but… Ron had just lifted it from his shoulders, almost effortlessly. With a few well-chosen words and that little ghostly shake, the mind-numbing, all-consuming guilt was gone. The sorrow was still there, and it would always be there- but he could learn to cope with the sorrow, because now it was good, clean sorrow. Untainted.

It was as if Ron had just bled an ugly wound. The wound would still scar, but the fever had broken now; the infection was gone. Harry was left weak, shaking in its wake.

He made an attempt at a smile, and expelled a long, unsteady breath. "So," he said at last, casting an eye at Ron's attire, "here for the wedding, are you?"

"You didn't think I'd miss it?" Ron replied, grinning again.

"Are you going to… talk with Hermione as well?"

Ron's expression clouded. "Actually, I can't," he said. "I'm not really a ghost, see, Harry? I've moved on. So I kind of have to… well, apply for permission to come back and visit- and it's only granted every once in a great while, and only to see a single person at a time. And Hermione and I have already spoken, on the day I died. When she almost died as well, and I sent her back. I would have loved to have talked with her on her wedding day," he continued, his voice turning wistful now- "but I'll be around the whole time, and she's a very intuitive person- I think she'll know I'm here. And anyway- I can get you to deliver a message for me, can't I?"

"Anything, mate, just say the word."

A mischievous glint came into Ron's eyes and smile. "Tell her that I fully expect her firstborn to be named after me."

Harry barked a surprised laugh. 'What if it's a girl? Have you considered that?"

"Erm… well, no, actually." Ron's brow knitted for a moment in thought- then cleared.

"Ronnelle?" he suggested brightly.

Harry laughed more genuinely than he would have thought, a day ago, he'd ever laugh again.

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Draco had seen to it that every detail Hermione had asked for as she'd lain dying in his arms all those weeks ago came to pass exactly- save one. The ceremony was indeed held on a cliff, at sunset, overlooking the water- but instead of the sea, it was the Hogwarts Lake that stretched out below them. They had ended up agreeing that there was far more sentimentality in getting married within sight both of the castle in which they had fallen in love, and, smaller and further away, yet still clearly visible on the opposite shore, their own personal "castle"; their new home.

At the top of the chosen cliff was a stretch of land that was, with just a _bit_ of magical manipulation, large and flat enough to accommodate both the ceremony site- some one hundred and twenty graceful, white chairs in all, arranged in ten rows with a center aisle running through them- and the reception tent a short distance away.

Torches, guttering in the evening breeze, lined the aisle that Hermione was to walk down, and magically conjured white rose petals, an inch deep at least, carpeted it from side to side, beginning to end, in order to cushion her feet- which were bare. The guests had all filed into their rows from the sides, to avoid disturbing the petals which were intended for the bride. As the sun set over the lake in a blaze of glory, Draco stood, Snape beside him, at the place where the aisle terminated in a small clearing just beside the cliff-edge. A few feet away was Dumbledore, who would be officiating, and was waiting patiently beside a small, white-clothed table that held an eclectic little assortment of items for use in the ceremony; a pair of tall white candles decorated with sprays of tiny blue flowers, two identical lengths of white silk cord, a silver chalice engraved with Draco and Hermione's names and the date, and filled with wine; and finally, a pair of crowns woven out of white ribbons, pearls, and fragrant white orange-blossoms- that were connected to each other by a length of white satin ribbon.

A breathless, excited hush filled the air. The officiant was in place. The groom and best man were in place. The mother of the bride was ensconced in the front row, left-hand side, as was proper. Harry, and Hermione's father, waited at the foot of the aisle; they would both be escorting the bride.

Hermione was nowhere in sight- and the small, knowing smile on Harry's lips showed him to be one of the only two people present who had any idea where she was.

And then it happened. It was the most dramatic entrance to a wedding that the assembled guests (magical all, with the exception of Hermione's parents, who had come armed with three Muggle disposable cameras each, with which to take "ordinary" photographs that could be shown to friends and family back home- the simple winding mechanism inside the cardboard cameras would not, Dumbledore had promised, be disrupted by the magic in the air as most Muggle electronic devices would) had ever seen.

One moment the foot of the aisle stood empty, and Draco was milliseconds away from succumbing to a complete panic attack- and in the next, with a rustle and swish of soft, silvery fabric, she was there, having whisked Harry's invisibility cloak from her shoulders.

There was a collective gasp, and the guests rose, as one, to their feet.

Hermione's eyes were upon Draco's instantly, however- her smile reserved only for him.

And as for Draco- Snape actually had to reach out a steadying hand, gripping him by the upper arm- because it appeared for a second that he might actually decide _to hell with protocol_ and cross the distance between them, to meet her. Their eyes locked on one another from opposite ends of the aisle, it was as if the rest of the world ceased to exist for the both of them. It was a moment that was both timeless… and over far too soon.

Then Hermione was passing the now-bundled-up invisibility cloak over to Neville Longbottom, who was the second and final person that had been in on the plan for her entrance- and who had sat in the back row specifically in order to be the one to whom the cloak was handed, as Harry trusted him implicitly to keep the rare and valuable item safe. She then turned her dazzling smile on Harry himself, and finally on her father, as each offered her an arm- (Draco suddenly felt as if someone had turned out the lights- he needed the radiance of her smile directed back at _him_ again, damn it!)- and then the string quartet, which sat a little ways off to the side, began to play and she was approaching, her best friend on her right side, her father on her left; starting down the aisle as Hanni, bursting with pride and pleasure, appeared with a pop directly behind her, to fulfill her own wedding-related role of train-bearer.

The train, of course, being attached to the dress… and oh, the dress. Hermione had said she'd wanted a dress that floated out behind her as she walked; and her vision had come to life with even more grace than she could have imagined. It did more than float; it _billowed_ in the breeze, her every movement sending ripples through the fabric of the full, ball-gown skirt, which was embellished with bustles and gathers all the way down the back, and dotted with delicate silk orange-blossoms which perfectly matched the fresh ones on the crowns, and in the dainty nosegay bouquet she carried. The corset of the gown laced up her back and was boned in the front. A simple scoop neckline and understated capped sleeves allowed the skin at her throat to act as a showplace for the jaw-dropping diamond necklace Draco had given her as a wedding gift; she'd found it that morning, wrapped, on the floor outside the master bedroom door.

The hairstyle she'd ultimately gone with was surprisingly simple, and a lot less formal than her mother would have preferred. For the most part it was down; a tumultuous cascade of the thick, dark curls Draco loved so well. At her temples began two small braids, which were pulled back from her face and joined into one larger, more elaborate plait which hung down the center of her back. It was there, where the braids met, that her veil was attached, the fastenings hidden beneath a spray of white and pale blue flowers. A single gauzy panel, as light and ephemeral as spider silk, floated out behind her as she moved; it was the same length as her dress, train and all. In the front, a 'blusher' covered her face, just down to the chin.

When she reached the head of the aisle her father lifted the blusher and kissed her left cheek just as Harry kissed her right (and she could almost swear, with a slight, though not unpleasant, tingle down her spine, that she felt another, ghostly pair of lips brush her forehead at the same time). Then Draco shook hands with them both, and clasped _her_ hand in his own, twining their fingers together and whispering "God, you're beautiful," and they turned to face Dumbledore, and the ceremony began.

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Draco and Hermione's wedding ceremony was completely unique in that it combined several of the pagan customs of traditional wizardkind with many of the Christian traditions of Hermione's Greek heritage. The fact that she was, after all, named Hermione- Greek for "Earthy"- was no accident; Her mother, Helena Pappas Granger, was full Greek and a practicing Orthodox Christian. The only thing that had surprised Hermione, when she and Draco had begun to plan on what should be incorporated into their ceremony, was just how many _alike_ many of the symbolisms were. Each of them drinking wine out of a single, "common cup", for instance, was a practice observed in both traditions. Ditto the loose binding of their hands together with white cording, and the fact that they were expected to hold white candles for a significant portion of the ceremony. It was amazing, really, just how much the two traditions had in common. This had allowed the young couple to build the ceremony that was perfectly suited to them; an expression of their personalities and their love, and to do it absolutely seamlessly.

After Dumbledore spoke a few words of welcome and blessing to open the service, Draco and Hermione began to perform the rituals that would bind them to one another as husband and wife. Another similarity between the two traditions that Hermione and Draco were drawing from, is that their wedding ceremonies incorporate very few words; no long-winded vows at all- just the demonstration of love and commitment through time-honored actions. In fact, in the whole of the ceremony, the bride and the groom spoke only two words each, in answer to direct questions posed them by their officiant. Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling as brightly as the waters of the lake spread out below them, asked each in turn whether they had come of their own free will to offer themselves up in marriage- the answer, of course, was yes. The next question; "Have you pledged yourself to anyone else?" The answer to this, a resounding no. And just like that, Draco and Hermione's 'speaking parts' were over.

The rest of the ceremony was one symbol, on ritual, after another. There was the common cup; the wine contained within it symbolized the fact that life is bittersweet- the cup itself, touching first Draco's lips and then Hermione's, represented the fact that from that moment on they would share equally in all that life had to offer them; the bitter _and_ the sweet. Once they had exchanged the rings, Dumbledore took the two pieces of white silk cord in his hands, each symbolizing a life that had, up until this moment, been separate, independent; one for Draco and the other for Hermione. He knotted them together in the middle in order to demonstrate the union of the two young people standing before him, then loosely bound their intertwined hands together, demonstrating the ties that would bind them for the rest of their lives. The highlight of the ceremony came when, as Hermione and Draco stood side by side facing him, holding their candles in their non-bound hands, Dumbledore crowned them with the floral wreathes, intoning the traditional Greek Orthodox blessing, "Oh Lord our God, crown them with glory and honor." They were now officially husband and wife, and the rulers of their own private little domain; their joint home.

The ceremony over, they kissed to rousing applause; then, leaving the silken cord and candles behind on the altar, but still wearing the crowns which connected them to one another through a single white ribbon, they turned and made their way back down the aisle arm in arm. Hermione didn't even notice anything amiss until Draco bent close to her and, with a smile curving his lips, whispered, "look down."

She did so and gasped. Her bare feet were a good six inches above the petal-strewn aisle. She and Draco were- quite literally- walking on air!

It was, of course, a manifestation of Draco's vast new abilities. He no longer needed his wand to perform magic- it was just an accessory to him now- something he was sentimentally attached to, but had outgrown, like a favorite childhood toy. He no longer needed, in most cases, even to speak; he could simply visualize what he wanted to happen, and if he concentrated hard enough, it would come to pass. This was what he was doing now; no wand, no spell, just the power of his will. And the ease with which he did it was staggering; it took Hermione's breath away. Right now, for instance, he was completely relaxed. This was nothing to him; she couldn't even imagine where the limit of his power lay, or what it would take for him to reach it.

All these thoughts of the 'how' of his magic were whisked from her mind a moment later, though, as they reached the foot of the aisle; the band, acting in accordance with an arrangement Draco must have made with them prior to the ceremony, swept immediately into an instrumental rendering of Draco and Hermione's song- the one they'd danced to on the night of his Resorting- and Hermione found _herself_ swept, just as suddenly, into her new husband's arms for their first dance.

She hadn't been expecting this until the reception, but, "I couldn't wait any longer," Draco said by way of explanation, burying his face in her curls for a moment, breathing in her scent, tightening his arms. He began to waltz her away from where the wedding guests were now standing, moving down the aisle in their own turn, some stopping to watch the newly married couple dance, others beginning to stroll toward the reception tent. "I was going mad today without you. I've never spent a longer eighteen hours in my life. And I never want to go a day without you again!" They were rising now, with the swelling of the music; they were a foot off the ground; two. And then Draco danced her right off the edge of the cliff, and out over the crimson, sunset waters of the lake.

Hermione gasped again, and stiffened in his arms- but only for a second. Draco lifted his face from her hair and smiled at her; "I would never let you go, you know that, right? I'd die first. I love you so much, bookworm… and besides," he teased, "we're not very well going to do this over land- I can't have that little Creevey perv trying to sneak photos up under your dress, can I, now? Why you hired him for the wedding portraits I will never know-"

"Colin is a very talented photographer," Hermione interjected, her tone mock-indignant, but her eyes sparkling. "He just… has a hard time knowing where to draw the line sometimes."

Draco growled. "Do you think it makes me feel better, hearing my _wife_ say a thing like that about another man? He'd damn well better _learn_ where to draw the line with his bloody pictures, and right quick!"

"Your wife," Hermione echoed, wonderingly, raising a satin-gloved hand to cup his cheek, brush his silver-white fringe back out of his eyes.

And just like that, the thunderclouds that had been gathering in Draco's expression vanished, to be replaced by a slow grin. "My wife," he affirmed. And then again, "my wife." He plunged a hand into her thick, dark hair and pulled her in for a kiss. In that moment nothing mattered- not the sun sinking over the lake, or the guests at the cliff's edge, who broke out into light applause; not the promise of a reception filled with good food, good drink and good friends, lasting far into the night, or even the melody of their special song enveloping them- nothing mattered to them but each other.

_I want to hold you til I die; til we both break down and cry. I want to hold you til the fear in me subsides._

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(A/N: Well. Holy _Shite_. This was long enough in coming. This isn't the end, by the way; there's one chapter left to tie up loose ends. I apologize profusely for the delay, even if I am, as I suspect, speaking to an empty house, and deservedly so- I wouldn't expect anyone to have borne with me for this long, it's just too much. If there's anyone still out there, though, thank you- you have the patience of a saint!

A couple of words about the ceremony- it was close to my heart because, like Hermione, my name is Greek- I saw her name as a wonderful opportunity to give her something in common with myself! Kyra translates to "Ruler", and no, not the kind you do your math homework with. I'm a queen, baby, yeah!- and my family and I practice Orthodoxy, so the wedding ceremony mentioned in this chapter was very close to my heart. And I truly _was_ flabbergasted when I did some research into pagan weddings and discovered how many similarities there are- not in the language or ideologies involved, but in the rituals and symbols, and the meanings behind them. It just goes to show, I think, that people are fundamentally similar, no matter what their race, color or creed. And in these times of global strife, that's heartening to me. Although- the Orthodox Church guards its lovely ceremony jealously; if my mother were to hear that I had taken elements from it and mixed it with _paganism_ she would chase me around the block with her wooden spoon for hours- I'm hardly exaggerating here! So ssshhh… mum's the words on my open-mindedness… which she would label sacrilege!

Final chapter should be up relatively soon…)


	31. Chapter 31: Happily Ever After?

By the time Draco and Hermione returned to earth, the aperitifs were being served, champagne was being poured, and the festivities were getting well underway. The party, for them, sped by in a swirl of lights and music and color, smiling faces and hugs and well-wishes, and the tinkling of spoons against glasses, signaling them to kiss. Hermione danced with her father, followed by Harry, who, she noticed, seemed happier and more at peace than she'd seen him in months. She questioned him about it, but he just smiled and mentioned what lovely occasions weddings were, and how nice it was to run into old friends at them. (He would tell her the rest in due time, but had decided that the dance floor at her wedding reception was neither the place nor the time to stun her with revelations about Ron. He felt strongly that Ron agreed with this- though the redhead had faded from Harry's sight not long after their initial conversation, he could still definitely sense his presence. It was a feeling of incredible well-being, that sense that on this happy day, _both_ his best mates were close at hand.)

Hermione, watching Harry move off toward the refreshment table with a puzzled smile on her face, was not given the opportunity to wonder long about the change in her dearest friend- a moment later she was swept into her new husband's arms for yet another dance.

She danced with Sirius, and with Dumbledore as well, which was rather like dancing with her grandfather- then with Snape, which was just rather… odd. While Draco danced with her mother, who was astounded by his skill ("Good gracious, I thought ballroom dancing was a lost art among your generation!") Hermione found herself once again partnering Neville Longbottom, who was just as bumbling and wrong-footed and endearingly flustered as he had been so long ago, the night of Draco's Resorting and the victory ball. He seemed unable to believe his luck at scoring a dance with the bride; blushing, unable to meet her eyes, treating her more like a celebrity than the girl he'd shared classes, meals, and a common room with for seven years. Hermione's smile never faltered as she quickly whispered the words of a shielding spell to protect her bare toes from the sweetly bumbling boy's oversized feet.

There was a sit-down dinner served by a team of smartly-clad, paid house elves, who were headed by Dobby and Hanni, of course. Guests ate in the huge white silk tent, which was festooned all over with darting, twinkling fairy lights. Draco and Hermione shared a candlelit table for two at the far end, with a view out over the nighttime lake, to the sparkling lights of Hogsmeade Village and their own home. At the nearest table to them were Hermione's parents, along with Snape, McGonagall, Dumbledore, and Arthur and Molly Weasley. It had been uncertain up until almost the last minute whether the Weasleys would actually attend, and had been a source of immense joy to Hermione when she'd arrived at the ceremony site to find the whole clan there, taking up nearly an entire row. Their meeting, after the ceremony, was a bittersweet one, as all future meetings between the remaining members of the "Gryffindor Four" and the bereaved Weasley family were destined to be- but under such joyful circumstances, it could hardly help but be light on the bitter; heavy on the sweet.

Just a little further off sat Harry, along with Neville and the entire younger generation of the Weasleys. Neither Hermione, nor Draco, nor Harry himself had seen any of them since graduation day some five months ago, and it was readily apparent to the newly married couple, who kept sneaking looks at that particular table and then elbowing each other and sharing furtive grins of sheer delight, that Harry was looking at Ginny though entirely new eyes.

And deservedly so. Ginny, who was currently in her seventh year and Hogwarts' Head Girl, looked every inch a woman- and a lovely one at that, in flowing midnight blue robes with her fiery hair twined into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck. Harry couldn't keep his eyes off her- it was patently obvious to Hermione and Draco, and no less so to Ginny herself, who was deep in conversation with him, positively glowing with pleasure at the attention, yet conducting herself with a very adult- and very appealing- air of serenity and confidence.

Hermione leaned in toward Draco to comment on this, but Fred and George chose that exact moment to initiate yet another spoons-on-glasses uproar… and the newlyweds were obliged to respond with a kiss. Not, of course, that they minded very much. There would be plenty of time for discussing their friends' love lives- perhaps even for some strategic match-making- later. This time, this place, these few short magical hours, were all about _them_.

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There was a cake-cutting, the cake being shaped, as Hermione had stipulated all those months ago, like a stack of books; slightly asymmetrical, and expertly decorated, with the titles of her favorite reads piped delicately onto the spines in chocolate icing. This last was a detail Draco had overseen himself, as a surprise to his bride. The largest book, at the bottom of the stack, was of course none other than "Hogwarts, A History". It was this book that they cut into, in order to feed each other bite-sized pieces with their fingers as Fred and George hollered, "Smash it! Smash it in his face!"

Predictably, Hermione ignored this request. Also predictably, Molly Weasley accosted her wayward sons from behind, pushing through the crowd and managing to grab each twin by an ear before they even realized she was there, so caught up were they in their own antics. She dragged them bodily away from the cake table, scolding them like children for all that they were now grown men- and very successful entrepreneurs. Hermione could hear Molly berating them, going on about their behavior in public, asserting that they didn't even deserve any cake after an exhibition like that. Her angry tirade was counter-pointed now and again by two nearly identical voices whining exaggeratedly- "but, _mu-u-um!_"

Hermione clunked her forehead against Draco's shoulder, stifling her laughter into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. Someone nearby grabbed a spoon and a glass, and soon enough, they were obliged to kiss again; this time, Draco dipped her backward, almost to the floor.

The cake-related festivities were followed shortly by the bouquet and garter toss- both of which were largely Muggle traditions that Draco was unfamiliar with, and which Hermione had forgotten to clue him into during their discussion round the table the previous night. She had to do so quickly now, leaning in and whispering instructions into his ear, while his pale eyes first widened almost comically, then narrowed as the beginnings of a wicked grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. It was clear that he found the idea of diving under her skirts, for the prize of a lacy garter set well up on her thigh, quite appealing- but still, he had misgivings. "Are you serious?" he muttered when she drew away. "Right here in front of everyone? In front of _Creevey?_"

"Don't be silly, no one will see a thing," she admonished him, "that's partly why Muggle women favor such enormous dresses, I think. All Colin or anyone else will see is layer upon layer of fabric."

Now it was Draco's turn to lean in and whisper. "What if I miss the garter?" he breathed into her ear. "How will I know if I've gone… too high?"

"Draco-!" Hermione's voice took on a distinctly Molly Weasley-ish tone of warning, that even caused the twins to turn their heads from halfway across the tent. They looked from Draco, who was still grinning evilly, to Hermione, a pretty flush now rising to her cheeks, to each other- and, much to the real Molly's dismay, broke out into loud whoops and cries of "yeah, mate!"

Hermione was caught between the urge to sigh and roll her eyes, and the equally strong urge to bury her flushed face in her husband's chest again, hiding it from view. Unable to choose which course of action to take, she did all of the above in rapid succession. Then her head shot up as a thought occurred to her. "Oh," said to Draco, "I almost forgot- the man who catches the garter and the woman who catches the bouquet share a dance! It's the custom. And I think…" pulling his head down, she murmured the rest too softly for anyone else to hear.

"Yes," Draco smiled a moment later, "I think that can be arranged."

With just the smallest bit of help from a couple of expertly cast guidance spells, Ginny caught the bouquet and Harry the garter.

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He flew her home by broomstick across the moonlit lake.

By the time the newlyweds left the reception, only their family and close friends remained. The lingerers gathered at the cliff's edge to see them off; Harry, and the one or two other Muggleborns present, laughing at Draco's confused expression as he took in the streamers and tin cans they had surreptitiously tied to the tail of his absurdly expensive broom. Another odd Muggle tradition he didn't quite know what to make of. Hermione's parents were being put up at Hogwarts for the night; Dumbledore had offered them the lavish guest quarters that were usually reserved for visiting Ministry officials, members of the school's board of governors, and assorted foreign dignitaries. Harry had accepted an offer to spend the night at the Weasleys' house. At one o'clock in the afternoon, some twelve hours from this moment, this same small, intimate group of friends would convene upon the Hogsmeade residence of the new Malfoy family for lunch and leftover wedding cake, and to watch the young couple open their gifts. Until then, Draco and Hermione would have their house all to themselves.

Which is an important thing, on a wedding night.

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Hermione rode "side saddle" on the broom, unwilling to straddle the wooden shaft in her gown. She sat in front of Draco, angled back toward him so that she was very nearly facing backwards- both of her arms wrapped around his neck, and her cheek pressed to his chest. They arrived home to find that Hanni must have slipped back unnoticed at some point during the reception, because the house was flooded with warmth and light, and, they discovered as Draco carried Hermione over the threshold, the foyer was now an inch deep in rose petals just as the center aisle at their ceremony had been- only these were red instead of white. The plush carpet of crimson petals continued down the hall all the way to their bedroom at the end, and when they opened _that_ door, it was to find a roaring fire in the grate, a bottle of champagne chilling on the bedside table, and the bed itself absolutely _drowned_ in petals; red, pink and white.

Draco crossed purposefully to the bed and laid Hermione gently on it- he'd been carrying her all this while. Then he stepped back, shrugged out of his cloak, and the jacket of his Muggle wedding suit, and began wrestling with his tie- but stopped a second later, arrested by the site before him. Hermione, lying on her elbows in the middle of the bed, all white silk and glorious dark hair against a riot of rose petals; her face flushed and her breath coming quicker now, in anticipation of what was to happen next.

He stared at her for a long moment, not even breathing. She literally took his breath away. He might have stayed that way forever, just drinking her in with his eyes, savoring this vision of perfection on his- _their_- bed… but then her brow crinkled in puzzlement. "Draco-?" she asked, and extended her arms toward him, beckoning him to join her.

He forgot about his tie.

Giving his head a small shake to clear it, he raised both hands abruptly and ran them through his hair. He suddenly felt a bit dizzy, and with good reason- all blood that was non-essential to survival had just abandoned his head for lower regions. "Merlin, Hermione," he said, in a voice that was hoarse with emotion, "you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." And then he was lowering himself over her, catching her face in both his hands, sliding them into her hair, claiming her lips with his.

It took them a very long time to come up for breath. When they did, Draco spoke against her, his lips moving on hers, which were sensuously swollen from hours of repeated kisses. "I love you," he murmured, "so much- so goddamned _much_, Hermione-" he began to move against her, his fingers stroking, caressing, going to the laces of her gown; feeling the incredible softness of the silk; her skin. He moved his mouth too, dropping kisses in various places to punctuate his words. "You are everything that matters to me-" (he kissed the corner of her mouth) "my heart-" (the tip of her nose) "my soul-" (her temple) "my future-" (her earlobe) "my reason for being, for breathing-" (the sensitive place where her neck joined her shoulder, making her shiver beneath him) "my wife. When the nightmares come, we'll ride them out together, and I will never-" (back up to her forehead) "ever-" (down to her collarbone) "let anything hurt you again. I will kill anyone that tries. I swear to you, Hermione- I swear to _God_- you're safe-" (and he was dragging his lips now, back down her neck) "and loved-" (pushing down the loosened bodice of her gown) "always-" (dropping a kiss between her breasts, now almost fully exposed, rising and falling rapidly with her panting, aroused little breaths) "-_always._"

They made love countless times that night as the fire died away to embers, at first almost fully dressed in their wedding attire, but shedding more and more clothing as the hours passed, until they were both completely naked, sticky from exertion; crushed rose petals clinging to their limbs as they moved, filling the room with fragrance as they finally fell asleep in one another's arms, fused so closely together that he was still inside of her and they truly seemed one being rather than two.

It was a fantastic beginning. The promise of a fantastic life.

And things were good.

Things were deliriously good.

For a while.

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EPILOGUE – Five Years Later

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The young mother sat on a checkered cloth spread on the grass, her long legs folded gracefully beneath her. Before her spread acres of lush green grounds; behind her sat the impressive mansion that she called her home. There had been a while there when things had most definitely _not_ been going her way; a time when she had almost given up. She had been destitute; penniless and friendless, alone in all the world.

Well… not entirely alone. There had been the life she'd carried within her. The life that was now her son, playing a little way farther down the lawn. It looked as though he were stalking bugs. He raised his head and waved to her; she smiled and waved back. Her son. Her world. Her redemption.

Her revenge.

She really wasn't so very young, when one got right down to it. But she _looked_ twenty years younger than was actually the case; she looked twenty-five years old, and so far as her husband knew, she was. _He_ was a good deal older than twenty-five, of course; older than her real age; older than her first husband would have been, had he been alive today. And oh, this new husband, was he wealthy. And oh, was he powerful. She had a real knack for attracting wealth and power; she always had. He had lifted her up out of the ashes of her former life; like a phoenix, she had been reborn. And she did feel a certain affection for him; as much as she possibly could for an inferior life form, at any rate. And she was grateful- grateful for the things he shared so readily with her; the wealth, the power, the privilege- things she'd taken for granted years ago, before they'd all been stripped away from her in the course of a single, disastrous night. She'd been lucky to escape with her life.

She never discussed any of this with her husband, of course. He had no idea she'd ever been married before. He'd scooped her out of desperate poverty when her son had still been an infant, seeing only a beautiful, and obviously aristocratic, young woman who'd fallen from grace by getting pregnant out of wedlock. He thought she'd been disowned by her family. She didn't disabuse him of this notion. In a way she had been.

Aside from the child she now watched playing, she had only one family member left alive- and he was family by blood only. Once he had been as full of promise as the little boy frolicking on the lawn of this Muggle mansion, the only home he'd ever known. Now, that family member thought her dead, but should he ever find out otherwise he would doubtless hunt her down and kill her himself. He had other priorities in his life these days- (she had her sources, to tell her what he was up to; oh, yes. Her new husband's copious amounts of money bought her all the information she needed)- a wife. A child. A second on the way. People he _loved_. She allowed herself a sneer at the thought. A mudblood wife and filthy half-breed spawn. Disgusting. She wasn't bothered in the least by the hypocrisy of thinking this way when she herself had married a Muggle; it was an entirely different thing. She had done what she'd had to do in order to survive, and give herself, and even more importantly, her young child, the benefits of wealth, security, and power. She hadn't fallen in love. She'd only ever loved one man; only ever considered one man to be her equal; only ever borne one man's children. And that man had been pure. And her child, playing here in the Spring sunshine, was pure.

But back to the other- the renegade. He had people he loved now, and that meant he had liabilities. He would be afraid for them if he ever found out that she was alive and well and biding her time. He would be afraid for them, and with good reason. He had killed her mate. She more than intended to return the favor.

With interest.

But all in good time. She would let the years pass. She would let his interest grow. She hoped he would have a big family, so that when the time came, he could watch one after another after _another_ suffer and die, until he _begged_ her to put him out of his misery.

It would be quite some time, though, before her secret weapon was ready. A weapon he would, as soft as he'd become, have little defense against, for all that his magic was now, she'd heard it rumored, more powerful than any other wizard's in an age. No, he wouldn't be able to defend himself against this weapon because he'd be first too shocked by its existence, and then too busy trying to redeem it. He wouldn't be _able_ to destroy it, because when he looked at it, he would see himself. Same hair. Same eyes. Same blood running through its veins.

The weapon was her most perfect and cherished creation.

She loved it. It loved her. And the other, the renegade, would never be able to break that bond. But when the time came, rather than seeking to destroy the weapon, he would try. And he would fail. And he would die screaming.

The weapon was approaching her now, running sturdily on chubby little legs, grinning from ear to ear, both hands clutching bunches of daisies he'd picked for her. She watched him come, smiling at his shining silver-white hair, his ice-blue eyes. So new. So pure. Such limitless potential.

"Hello, my love," she smiled as he reached her and dumped his gift of flowers into her sundress-clad lap.

"For you, mummy," said the weapon.

With a few murmured words and a wave of her hand, she transfigured the lot of them into two delicate daisy chains. She slipped one over his head- he bent his neck to receive it- and then allowed him to decorate her in the same fashion. With that done, she reached out and caught his little face gently between her hands. "Luke, darling," she said solemnly, "can step-daddy Tom ever know about mummy's magic?"

"No, mummy," replied the weapon with equal gravity, "never."

"Good boy. You make mummy so proud. Do you remember the name of your real daddy?"

"Lucius. His name was like mine!"

"Yes, and there's a reason for that. Tell mummy what the reason is."

The weapon smiled; this was familiar territory; he knew exactly what to say. "Because I'm going to be just like him someday."

"And when you're a big grown man with magic of your own, what are you going to do, Luke?"

This answer too, he knew by heart. "I'm going to find the man who killed my daddy and hurt my mummy, and I'm going to kill _him!_"

"And?"

"And everything he loves."

"Because?"

"Because he's a bad man. And bad men only love bad things."

She nodded in satisfaction. "And how will you know this bad man when you've found him, my darling?"

"He will look like me, and his name is Draco Malfoy."

She pulled him close. "You are my brave, smart boy."

His wide, pale eyes, so full of love and trust and devotion, sought hers. Mimicking her earlier gesture, he lifted both his arms and pressed his chubby little hands to her cheeks, an endearing attempt to cradle her face as she had done his. "For you, mummy," he said again. "I will kill the bad man for you."

Narcissa smiled and kissed his forehead.

_Perfect._

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END

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(A/N: Wow. _Wow_. Another fic complete. 197 pages long in 10-point font in my Microsoft Word file, I don't mind telling you. Hope you enjoyed! As you may have noticed, I left it just a _leeeetle_ bit open for continuation. I always envisioned this storyline as a trilogy. Work has not begun on the third story, however. I'm not sure when it _will_ begin. Perhaps in weeks, or months, or a year. Perhaps never. It all depends on grad school, on my time and motivation. Anyway, thank you, _thank you_ for reading this story! It was a real labor of love. I would have written it even if no one had been reading, but it means the _world_ to me that people were! And that those same readers were so patient with me, through delay after delay. You guys are awesome- D/Hr fandom rocks! So… um… I guess… peace out.)


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